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THE  DIAMOND  NECKLACE 


THE 


BIAMOMD  NECKLACE 


THOMAS  CARLYLE 


BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 

HOUGHTON    MIFFLIN   COMPANY 

I913 


NOTE 

"  I  have  also,  with  an  effort,  accomplished  the 
projected  piece  on  the  Diamond  Necklace.  It 
was  finished  this  day  week;  really  a  queer  kind 
of  thing,  of  some  forty  and  odd  pages.  Jane  at 
first  thought  we  should  print  it  at  our  own 
charges,  set  our  name  on  it,  and  send  it  out  in 
God's  name.  Neither  she  nor  I  are  now  so  sure 
of  it,  but  will  consider  it.  My  attempt  was  to 
make  reality  ideal;  there  is  considerable  signifi- 
cance in  that  notion  of  mine,  and  I  have  not  yet 
seen  the  limit  of  it,  nor  shall  till  I  have  tried  to 
go  as  far  as  it  will  carry  me.  The  story  of  the 
Diamond  Necklace  is  all  told  in  that  paper  with 
the  strictest  fidelity,  yet  in  a  kind  of  musical 
way." 

Carlyle  to  his  brother 
December  24,  1833. 


CONTENTS 


Chapter 

I. 

Age  of  Romance 

3 

Chapter 

II. 

The  Necklace  is  Made    . 

i8 

Chapter 

III. 

The  Necklace  cannot  be  Sold 

28 

Chapter 

IV. 

Affinities:   The  Two    Fixed- 

Ideas       

32 

Chapter 

V. 

The  Artist       .... 

57 

Chapter 

VI. 

Will    the    Two    Fixed-Ideas 

Unite  ? 

70 

Chapter 

VII. 

Marie-Antoinette   . 

80 

Chapter  VIII. 

The    Two    Fixed-Ideas    will 

Unite 

87 

Chapter 

IX. 

Park  of  Versailles  . 

96 

Chapter 

X. 

Behind  the  Scenes    . 

104 

Chapter 

XL 

The  Necklace  is  Sold     . 

no 

Chapter 

XII. 

The  Necklace  Vanishes  . 

119 

^   viii   4* 
Chapter  XIII.  Scene  Third:  By  Dame  de  La- 

MOTTE 123 

Chapter  XIV.  The  Necklace  cannot  be  Paid  129 
Chapter  XV.  Scene  Fourth:  By  Destiny  .  141 
Chapter  Last.   Missa  Est 145 


THE  DIAMOND  NECKLACE 


THE 

ND  NECKLACE 


CHAPTER   I 

AGE    OF    ROMANCE 

THE  Age  of  Romance  has  not  ceased; 
it  never  ceases ;  it  does  not,  if  we  will 
think  of  it,  so  much  as  very  sensibly  de- 
cline. "  The  passions  are  repressed  by  social 
forms;  great  passions  no  longer  show  them- 
selves ?  "  Why,  there  are  passions  still  great 
enough  to  replenish  Bedlam,  for  it  never 
wants  tenants;  to  suspend  men  from  bed- 
posts, from  improved-drops  at  the  west  end 
of  Newgate.  A  passion  that  explosively 
shivers  asunder  the  Life  it  took  rise  in, 
ought  to  be  regarded  as  considerable :  more 


4i^  4  *§^ 
no  passion,  in  the  highest  heyday  of  Ro- 
mance, yet  did.  The  passions,  by  grace  of 
the  Supernal  and  also  of  the  Infernal  Pow- 
ers (for  both  have  a  hand  in  it),  can  never 
fail  us. 

And  then,  as  to  "social  forms,"  be  it 
granted  that  they  are  of  the  most  buckram 
quality,  and  bind  men  up  into  the  pitiful- 
est,  straitlaced,  commonplace  existence, — 
you  ask.  Where  is  the  Romance?  In  the 
Scotch  way  one  answers.  Where  is  it  not? 
That  very  spectacle  of  an  Immortal  Nature, 
with  faculties  and  destiny  extending  through 
Eternity,  hampered  and  bandaged  up,  by 
nurses,  pedagogues,  posture-masters,  and 
the  tongues  of  innumerable  old  women 
(named  "  force  of  public  opinion") ;  by  pre- 
judice, custom,  want  of  knowledge,  want 
of  money,  want  of  strength,  into,  say,  the 
meagre  Pattern-Figure  that,  in  these  days, 
meets  you  in  all  thoroughfares :  a  "god- 
created  Man,"  all  but  abnegating  the  char- 
acter of  Man;  forced  to  exist,  automatised, 


4i^  S  ^ 
mummy-wise  (scarcely  in  rare  moments 
audible  or  visible  from  amid  his  wrappages 
and  cerements),  as  Gentleman  or  Gigman; 
and  so  selling  his  birthright  of  Eternity  for 
the  three  daily  meals,  poor  at  best,  which 
Time  yields:  —  is  not  this  spectacle  itself 
highly  romantic,  tragical,  if  we  had  eyes  to 
look  at  it?  The  highborn  (highest-born, 
for  he  came  out  of  Heaven)  lies  drowning 
in  the  despicablest  puddles ;  the  priceless 
gift  of  Life,  which  he  can  have  but  once, 
for  he  waited  a  whole  Eternity  to  be  born, 
and  now  has  a  whole  Eternity  waiting  to  see 
what  he  will  do  when  born, — this  priceless 
gift  we  see  strangled  slowly  out  of  him  by  in- 
numerable packthreads;  and  there  remains 
of  the  glorious  Possibility,  which  we  fondly 
named  Man,  nothing  but  an  inanimate 
mass  of  foul  loss  and  disappointment,  which 
we  wrap  in  shrouds  and  bury  underground, 
—  surely  with  well-merited  tears.  To  the 
Thinker  here  lies  Tragedy  enough ;  the  epi- 
tome and  marrow  of  all  Tragedy  whatsoever. 


^  6  ^ 

But  so  few  are  Thinkers  ?  Ay,  Reader, 
so  few  think ;  there  is  the  rub !  Not  one 
in  the  thousand  has  the  smallest  turn  for 
thinking;  only  for  passive  dreaming  and 
hearsaying,  and  active  babbling  by  rote. 
Of  the  eyes  that  men  do  glare  withal  so  few 
can  see.  Thus  is  the  world  become  such 
a  fearful  confused  Treadmill;  and  each 
man's  task  has  got  entangled  in  his  neigh- 
bour's, and  pulls  it  awry ;  and  the  Spirit  of 
Blindness,  Falsehood, and  Distraction,  just- 
ly named  the  Devil,  continually  maintains 
himself  among  us;  and  even  hopes  (were 
it  not  for  the  Opposition,  which  by  God's 
grace  will  also  maintain  itself)  to  become 
supreme.  Thus,  too,  among  other  things, 
has  the  Romance  of  Life  gone  wholly  out 
of  sight:  and  all  History,  degenerating  into 
empty  invoice-lists  of  Pitched  Battles  and 
Changes  of  Ministry ;  or  still  worse,  into 
"Constitutional  History,"  or  "Philosophy 
of  History,"  or  "  Philosophy  Teaching  by 
Experience,"  is  become  dead,  as  the  Al- 


^  7  ^ 
manacs  of  other  years,  —  to  which  species 
of  composition,  indeed,  it  bears,  in  several 
points  of  view,  no  inconsiderable  affinity. 
"  Of  all  blinds  that  shut-up  men's  vision," 
says  one,  "the  worst  is  Self."  How  true! 
How  doubly  true,  if  Self,  assuming  her  cun- 
ningest,  yet  miserablest  disguise,  come  on 
us,  in  never-ceasing,  all-obscuring  reflexes 
from  the  innumerable  Selves  of  others;  not 
as  Pride,  not  even  as  real  Hunger,  but  only 
as  Vanity,  and  the  shadow  of  an  imaginary 
Hunger  for  Applause ;  under  the  name  of 
what  we  call  "  Respectability  " !  Alas  now 
for  our  Historian:  to  his  other  spiritual 
deadness  (which,  however,  so  long  as  he 
physically  breathes,  cannot  be  considered 
complete)  this  sad  new  magic  influence  is 
added!  Henceforth  his  Histories  must  all 
be  screwed  up  into  the  "  dignity  of  His- 
tory." Instead  of  looking  fixedly  at  the 
Thing,  and  first  of  all,  and  beyond  all,  en- 
deavouring to  see  it,  and  fashion  a  living 
Picture  of  it,  not  a  wretched  politico-meta- 


physical  Abstraction  of  it,  he  has  now  quite 
other  matters  to  look  to.  The  Thing  lies 
shrouded,  invisible,  in  thousandfold  hallu- 
cinations, and  foreign  air-images:  What  did 
the  Whigs  say  of  it  ?  What  did  the  Tories  ? 
The  Priests?  The  Freethinkers  ?  Above  all, 
What  will  my  own  listening  circle  say  of  me 
for  what  I  say  of  it  ?  And  then  his  Respect- 
ability in  general,  as  a  literary  gentleman; 
his  not  despicable  talent  for  philosophy! 
Thus  is  our  poor  Historian's  faculty  di- 
rected mainly  on  two  objects:  the  Writing 
and  the  Writer,  both  of  which  are  quite  ex- 
traneous ;  and  the  Thing  written-of  fares  as 
we  see.  Can  it  be  wonderful  that  Histories, 
wherein  open  lying  is  not  permitted,  are 
unromantic?  Nay,  our  very  Biographies, 
how  stifF-starched,foisonless,  hollow !  They 
stand  there  respectable ;  and — what  more  ? 
Dumb  idols;  with  a  skin  of  delusively 
painted  wax-work ;  inwardly  empty,  or  full 
of  rags  and  bran.  In  our  England  espe- 
cially, which  in  these  days  is  become  the 


4^  9  ^ 
chosen  land  of  Respectability,  Life-writing 
has  dwindled  to  the  sorrowfullest  condi- 
tion; it  requires  a  man  to  be  some  disre- 
spectable,  ridiculous  Boswell  before  he  can 
write  a  tolerable  Life.  Thus,  too,  strangely 
enough,  the  only  Lives  worth  reading  are 
those  of  Players,  emptiest  and  poorest  of 
the  sons  of  Adam ;  who  nevertheless  were 
sons  of  his,  and  brothers  of  ours ;  and  by 
the  nature  of  the  case,  had  already  bidden 
Respectability  good-day.  Such  bounties, 
in  this  as  in  infinitely  deeper  matters,  does 
Respectability  shower  down  on  us.  Sad  are 
thy  doings,  O  Gig;  sadder  than  those  of 
Juggernaut's  Car:  that,  with  huge  wheel, 
suddenly  crushes  asunder  the  bodies  of 
men ;  thou  in  thy  light-bobbing  Long- Acre 
springs,  gradually  winnowest  away  their 
souls ! 

Depend  upon  it,  for  one  thing,  good 
Reader,  no  age  ever  seemed  the  Age  of  Ro- 
mance to  itself.  Charlemagne,  let  the  Poets 
talk  as  they  will,  had  his  own  provocations 


^     lO    a§^ 

in  the  world  :  what  with  selling  of  his  poul- 
try and  pot-herbs,  what  with  wanton  daugh- 
ters carrying  secretaries  through  the  snow ; 
and,  for  instance,  that  hanging  of  the  Sax- 
ons over  the  Weserbridge  (four  thousand 
of  them,  they  say,  at  one  bout),  it  seems 
to  me  that  the  Great  Charles  had  his  temper 
ruffled  at  times.  Roland  of  Roncesvalles, 
too,  we  see  well  in  thinking  of  it,  found 
rainy  weather  as  well  as  sunny ;  knew  what 
it  was  to  have  hose  need  darning;  got  tough 
beef  to  chew,  or  even  went  dinnerless  ;  was 
saddle-sick,  calumniated,  constipated  (as 
his  madness  too  clearly  indicates) ;  and 
oftenest  felt,  I  doubt  not,  that  this  was  a 
very  Devil's  world,  and  he,  Roland  him- 
self, one  of  the  sorriest  caitiffs  there.  Only 
in  long  subsequent  days,  when  the  tough 
beef,  the  constipation,  and  the  calumny 
had  clean  vanished,  did  it  all  begin  to  seem 
Romantic,  and  your  Turpins  and  Ariostos 
found  music  in  it.  So,  I  say,  is  it  ever! 
And  the  more,  as  your  true  hero,  your  true 


4f  II  «► 

Roland,  is  ever  unconscious  that  he  is  a  hero : 
this  is  a  condition  of  all  greatness. 

In  our  own  poor  Nineteenth  Century, 
the  Writer  of  these  lines  has  been  fortunate 
enough  to  see  not  a  few  glimpses  of  Ro- 
mance ;  he  imagines  his  Nineteenth  is  hardly 
a  whit  less  romantic  than  that  Ninth,  or  any 
other  since  centuries  began.  Apart  from 
Napoleon,  and  the  Dantons,  and  the  Mira- 
beaus,  whose  fire-words  of  public  speaking, 
and  fire-whirlwinds  ofcannon  and  musketry, 
which  for  a  season  darkened  the  air,  are  per- 
haps at  bottom  but  superficial  phenomena, 
he  has  witnessed,  in  remotest  places,  much 
that  could  be  called  romantic,  even  mirac- 
ulous. He  has  witnessed  overhead  the  in- 
finite Deep,  with  greater  and  lesser  lights, 
bright-rolling,  silent-beaming,  hurled  forth 
by  the  Hand  of  God :  around  him  and  under 
his  feet,  the  wonderfullest  Earth,  with  her 
winter  snow-storms  and  her  summer  spice- 
airs  ;  and,  unaccountablest  of  all,  himself 
standing  there.  He  stood  in  a  lapse  of  Time; 


-^     12    «§► 

he  saw  Eternity  behind  him,  and  before  him. 
The  all-encircling  mysterious  tide  of  Force, 
thousandfold  (for  from  force  of  Thought 
to  force  of  Gravitation  what  an  interval!) 
billowed  shoreless  on ;  bore  him  too  along 
with  it,  —  he  too  was  part  of  it.  From  its 
bosom  rose  and  vanished,  in  perpetual 
change,  the  lordliest  Real-Phantasmagory, 
which  men  name  Being;  and  ever  anew  rose 
and  vanished ;  and  ever  that  lordliest  many- 
coloured  scene  was  full,  another  yet  the 
same.  Oak-trees  fell,  young  acorns  sprang; 
Men  too,  new-sent  from  the  Unknown,  he 
met,  of  tiniest  size,  who  waxed  into  stature, 
into  strength  of  sinew,  passionate  fire  and 
light:  in  other  men  the  light  was  grow- 
ing dim,  the  sinews  all  feeble;  then  sank, 
motionless,  into  ashes,  into  invisibility;  re- 
turned back  to  the  Unknown,  beckoning 
him  their  mute  farewell.  He  wanders  still 
by  the  parting-spot ;  cannot  hear  them ;  they 
are  far,  how  far  !  —  It  was  a  sight  for  angels, 
and  archangels;  for,  indeed,  God  himself 


4^  13  ^ 
had  made  it  wholly.  One  many-glancing 
asbestos-thread  in  the  Web  of  Universal- 
History,  spirit-woven,  it  rustled  there,  as 
with  the  howl  of  mighty  winds,  through 
that  "wild-roaring  Loom  of  Time."  Gen- 
eration after  generation,  hundreds  of  them 
or  thousands  of  them  from  the  unknown  Be- 
ginning, so  loud,  so  stormful-busy,  rushed 
torrent-wise,  thundering  down,  down ;  and 
fell  all  silent,  —  nothing  but  some  feeble 
reecho,  which  grew  ever  feebler,  strug- 
gling up ;  and  Oblivion  swallowed  them  alL 
Thousands  more,  to  the  unknown  Ending, 
will  follow :  and  thou  here,  of  this  present 
one,  hangest  as  a  drop,  still  sungilt,  on  the 
giddy  edge ;  one  moment,  while  the  Dark- 
ness has  not  yet  engulfed  thee.  O  Brother  ! 
is  that  what  thou  callest  prosaic;  of  small 
interest?  Of  small  interest  and  for  thee? 
Awake,  poor  troubled  sleeper:  shake  off 
thy  torpid  nightmare-dream  ;  look,  see,  be- 
hold it,  the  Flame-image ;  splendours  high 
as  Heaven,  terrors  deep  as  Hell :   this  is 


4f  14  ^ 
God's  Creation ;  this  is  Man's  Life! — Such 
things  has  the  Writer  of  these  lines  wit- 
nessed, in  this  poor  Nineteenth  Century  of 
ours ;  and  what  are  all  such  to  the  things 
he  yet  hopes  to  witness?  Hopes,  with  tru- 
est assurance.  "  I  have  painted  so  much," 
said  the  good  Jean  Paul,  in  his  old  days, 
"and  I  have  never  seen  the  Ocean;  the 
Ocean  of  Eternity  I  shall  not  fail  to  see!" 
Such  being  the  intrinsic  quality  of  this 
Time,  and  of  all  Time  whatsoever,  might 
not  the  Poet  who  chanced  to  walk  through 
it  find  objects  enough  to  paint  ?  What  ob- 
ject soever  he  fixed  on,  were  it  the  meanest 
of  the  mean,  let  him  but  paint  it  in  its 
actual  truth,  as  it  swims  there,  in  such  envi- 
ronment; world-old,  yet  new  and  never- 
ending  ;  an  indestructible  portion  of  the 
miraculous  All,  —  his  picture  of  it  were  a 
Poem.  How  much  more  if  the  object  fixed 
on  were  not  mean,  but  one  already  wonder- 
ful ;  the  mystic  "  actual  truth"  of  which,  if 
it  lay  not  on  the  surface,  yet  shone  through 


4t   15  ^ 

the  surface,  and  invited  even  Prosaists  to 
search  for  it ! 

The  present  Writer,  who  unhappily  be- 
longs to  that  class,  has  nevertheless  a  firmer 
and  firmer  persuasion  of  two  things  :  first, 
as  was  seen,  that  Romance  exists  ;  secondly, 
that  now,  and  formerly,  and  evermore  it 
exists,  strictly  speaking,  in  Reality  alone. 
The  thing  that  /j,  what  can  be  jo  wonderful; 
what,  especially  to  us  that  are,  can  have 
such  significance  ?  Study  Reality,  he  is  ever 
and  anon  saying  to  himself;  search  out 
deeper  and  deeper  its  quite  endless  mys- 
tery :  see  it,  know  it ;  then,  whether  thou 
wouldst  learn  from  it,  and  again  teach  ;  or 
weep  over  it,  or  laugh  over  it,  or  love  it,  or 
despise  it,  or  in  any  way  relate  thyself  to  it, 
thou  hast  the  firmest  enduring  basis  :  that 
hieroglyphic  page  is  one  thou  canst  read  on 
forever,  find  new  meaning  in  forever. 

Finally,  and  in  a  word,  do  not  the  critics 
teach  us  :  "In  whatsoever  thing  thou  hast 
thyself  felt  interest,  in  that  or  in  nothing 


^    i6  ^ 

hope  to  inspire  others  with  interest"?  —  In 
partial  obedience  to  all  which,  and  to  many 
other  principles,  shall  the  following  small 
Romance  of  the  Diamond  Necklace  begin  to 
come  together.  A  small  Romance,  let  the 
reader  again  and  again  assure  himself,  which 
is  no  brainweb  of  mine,  or  of  any  other  fool- 
ish man's ;  but  a  fraction  of  that  mystic 
"  spirit-woven  web,"  from  the  "  Loom  of 
Time/*  spoken  of  above.  It  is  an  actual 
Transaction  that  happened  in  this  Earth 
of  ours.  Wherewith  our  whole  business,  as 
already  urged,  is  to  paint  it  truly. 

For  the  rest,  an  earnest  inspection,  faith- 
ful endeavour  has  not  been  wanting,  on  our 
part ;  nor,  singular  as  it  may  seem,  the  strict- 
est regard  to  chronology,  geography  (or 
rather,  in  this  case,  topography),  document- 
ary evidence,  and  what  else  true  historical 
research  would  yield.  Were  there  but  on 
the  reader's  part  a  kindred  openness,  a  kin- 
dred spirit  of  endeavour !  Beshone  strongly, 
on  both  sides,  by  such  united  twofold  Phi- 


^  17  ^ 
losophy,  this  poor  opaque  Intrigue  of  the 
Z)/<«;«o;/^iV>^^/^f^  might  become  quite  trans- 
lucent between  us,  transfigured,  lifted  up 
into  the  serene  of  Universal-History;  and 
might  hang  there  like  a  smallest  Diamond 
Constellation,  visible  without  telescope, — 
so  long  as  it  could. 


u  jrjtftaio'if 


\^j,L^:^ 


[1  Vi 


CHAPTER   II 

THE    NECKLACE    IS    MADE 

HERR,  or  as  he  is  now  called  Monsieur, 
Boehmer,  to  all  appearance  wanted 
not  that  last  infirmity  of  noble  and  ignoble 
minds  —  a  love  of  fame ;  he  was  destined 
also  to  be  famous  more  than  enough.  His 
outlooks  into  the  world  were  rather  of  a 
smiling  character;  he  has  long  since  ex- 
changed his  guttural  speech,  as  far  as  pos- 
sible, for  a  nasal  one  ;  his  rustic  Saxon 
fatherland  for  a  polished  city  of  Paris,  and 
thriven  there.  United  in  partnership  with 
worthy  Monsieur  Bassange,  a  sound  prac- 
tical man,  skilled  in  the  valuation  of  all 
precious  stones,  in  the  management  of 
workmen,  in  the  judgment  of  their  work, 
he  already  sees  himself  among  the  highest 
of  his  guild :  nay,  rather  the  very  highest, 
— for  he  has  secured,  by  purchase  and  hard 


^  ig  ^ 

money  paid,  the  title  of  King's  Jeweller ; 
and  can  enter  the  Court  itself,  leaving  all 
other  Jewellers,  and  even  innumerable 
Gentlemen,  Gigmen,  and  small  Nobility, 
to  languish  in  the  vestibule.  With  the  cost- 
liest ornaments  in  his  pocket,  or  borne  after 
him  by  assiduous  shopboys,  the  happy 
Boehmer  sees  high  drawing-rooms  and  sa- 
cred ruelles  fly  open,  as  with  talismanic 
Sesame;  and  the  brightest  eyes  of  the  whole 
world  grow  brighter  :  to  him  alone  of  men 
the  Unapproachable  reveals  herself  in  mys- 
terious negligee;  taking  and  giving  counsel. 
Do  not,  on  all  gala-days  and  gala-nights, 
his  works  praise  him  ?  On  the  gorgeous 
robes  of  State,  on  Court-dresses  and  Lords* 
stars,  on  the  diadem  of  Royalty:  better 
still,  on  the  swan-neck  of  Beauty,  and  her 
queenly  garniture  from  plume-bearing  ai- 
grette to  shoe-buckle  on  fairy-slipper, — 
that  blinding  play  of  colours  is  Boehmer's 
doing :  he  is  Joaillier-Bijoutier  de  la  Reine, 
Could  the  man  have  been  content  with  it  1 


He  could  not:  Icarus-like,  he  must  mount 
too  high;  have  his  wax-wings  melted,  and 
descend  prostrate,  —  amid  a  cloud  of  vain 
goose-quills.  One  day,  a  fatal  day  (of  some 
year,  probably  among  the  Seventies  of  last 
Cehtury),it  struck  Boehmer:  Why  should 
not  I,  who  as  Most  Christian  King's  Jewel- 
ler, am  properly  first  Jeweller  of  the  Uni- 
verse,—  make  a  Jewel  which  the  Universe 
has  not  matched  ?  Nothing  can  prevent  thee, 
Boehmer,  if  thou  have  the  skill  to  do  it. 
Skill  or  no  skill,  answers  he,  I  have  the  am- 
bition: my  Jewel,  if  not  the  beautifullest, 
shall  be  the  dearest.  Thus  was  the  Diamond 
Necklace  determined  on. 

Did  worthy  Bassange  give  a  willing,  or  a 
reluctant  consent?  In  any  case  he  consents; 
and  cooperates.  Plans  are  sketched,  con- 
sultations held,  stucco  models  made;  by 
money  or  credit  the  costliest  diamonds  come 
in ;  cunning  craftsmen  cut  them,  set  them  : 
proud  Boehmer  sees  the  work  go  prosper- 
ously on.   Proud  man!   Behold  him  on  a 


4f    21     a§- 

morning  after  breakfast:  he  has  stepped 
down  to  the  innermost  workshop,  before  sal- 
lying out;  stands  there  with  his  laced  three- 
cornered  hat,  cane  under  arm ;  drawing-on 
his  gloves:  with  nod,  with  nasal-guttural 
word,  he  gives  judicious  confirmation,  judi- 
cious abnegation,  censure,  and  approval.  A 
still  joy  is  dawning  over  that  bland,  blond 
face  of  his ;  he  can  think,  while  in  many  a 
sacred  boudoir  he  visits  the  Unapproach- 
able, that  an  opus  magnum^  of  which  the 
world  wotteth  not,  is  progressing.  At  length 
comes  a  morning  when  care  has  terminated, 
and  joy  can  not  only  dawn  but  shine;  the 
Necklace,  which  shall  be  famous  and  world- 
famous,  is  made. 

Made  we  call  it,  in  conformity  with  com- 
mon speech,  but  properly  it  was  not  made; 
only,  with  more  or  less  spirit  of  method, 
arranged  and  agglomerated.  What  spirit  of 
method  lay  in  it,  might  be  made ;  nothing 
more.  But  to  tell  the  various  Histories  of 
those  various  Diamonds  from  the  first  mak- 


^    12    ^ 

ing  of  them ;  or  even,  omitting  all  the  rest, 
from  the  first  digging  of  them  in  the  far  In- 
dian mines!  How  they  lay,  for  uncounted 
ages  and  aeons  (under  the  uproar  and  splash- 
ing of  such  Deucalion  Deluges,  and  Hutton 
Explosions,  with  steam  enough,and  Werner 
Submersions),  silently  embedded  in  the 
rock;  did  nevertheless,  when  their  hour 
came,  emerge  from  it,  and  first  behold  the 
glorious  Sun  smile  on  them,  and  with  their 
many-coloured  glances  smile  back  on  him. 
How  they  served  next,  let  us  say,  as  eyes 
of  Heathen  Idols,  and  received  worship. 
How  they  had  then,  by  fortune  of  war  or 
theft,  been  knocked  out;  and  exchanged 
among  camp-sutlers  for  a  little  spirituous 
liquor,  and  bought  by  Jews,  and  worn  as 
signets  on  the  fingers  of  tawny  or  white 
Majesties;  and  again  been  lost,  with  the 
fingers  too,  and  perhaps  life  (as  by  Charles 
the  Rash,  among  the  mud-ditches  of  Nan- 
cy), in  old-forgotten  glorious  victories:  and 
so, — through  innumerable  varieties  of  for- 


^    23     ^ 

tune, — had  come  at  last  to  the  cutting- 
wheel  of  Boehmer;  to  be  united,  in  strange 
fellowship,  with  comrades  also  blown  to- 
gether from  all  ends  of  the  Earth,  each  with 
a  history  of  its  own !  Could  these  aged  stones, 
the  youngest  of  them  Six  Thousand  years 
of  age  and  upwards,  but  have  spoken,  there 
were  an  Experience  of  Philosophy  to  teach 
by !  —  But  now,  as  was  said,  by  little  caps  of 
gold,  and  daintiest  rings  of  the  same,  they 
are  all  being,  so  to  speak,  enlisted  under 
Boehmer's  flag,  —  made  to  take  rank  and 
file,  in  new  order,  no  Jewel  asking  his  neigh- 
bour whence  he  came;  and  parade  there  for 
a  season.  For  a  season  only;  and  then  —  to 
disperse,  and  enlist  anew  ad  infinitum.  In 
such  inexplicable  wise  are  Jewels,  and  men 
also,  and  indeed  all  earthly  things,  jumbled 
together  and  asunder,  and  shovelled  and 
wafted  to  and  fro,  in  our  inexplicable  chaos 
of  a  World.  This  was  what  Boehmer  called* 
making  his  Necklace. 

So,  in  fact,  do  other  men  speak,  and  with 


^    24    ^ 

even  less  reason.  How  many  men,  for 
example,  hast  thou  heard  talk  of  making 
money  ;  of  making,  say,  a  million  and  a  half 
of  money  :  Of  which  million  and  a  half,  how 
much,  if  one  were  to  look  into  it,  had  they 
made?  The  accurate  value  of  their  Indus- 
try ;  not  a  sixpence  more.  Their  making, 
then,  was  but,  like  Boehmer's,  a  clutching 
and  heaping  together  ;  —  by-and-by  to  be 
followed  also  by  a  dispersion.  Made  ?  Thou 
too  vain  individual  !  were  these  towered 
ashlar  edifices  ;  were  these  fair  bounteous 
leas,  with  their  bosky  umbrages  and  yel- 
low harvests ;  and  the  sunshine  that  lights 
them  from  above,  and  the  granite  rocks 
and  fire-reservoirs  that  support  them  from 
below,  made  by  thee?  I  think,  by  another. 
The  very  shilling  that  thou  hast  was  dug, 
by  man's  force,  in  Carinthia  and  Paraguay  ; 
smelted  sufficiently;  and  stamped,  as  would 
'seem,  not  without  the  advice  of  our  late  De- 
fender of  the  Faith,  his  Majesty  George 
the  Fourth.  Thou  hast  it,  and  boldest  it ; 


4^    25     ^ 

but  whether,  or  in  what  sense,  thou  hast 
made  any  farthing  of  it,  thyself  canst  not  say. 
If  the  courteous  reader  ask,  What  things, 
then,  are  made  by  man  ?  I  will  answer  him. 
Very  few,  indeed.  A  Heroism,  a  Wisdom 
(a  god-given  Volition  that  has  realized  it- 
self), is  made  now  and  then  :  for  example, 
some  five  or  six  Books,  since  the  Creation, 
have  been  made.  Strange  that  there  are  not 
more  :  for  surely  every  encouragement  is 
held  out.  Could  I,  or  thou,  happy  reader, 
but  make  one,  the  world  would  let  us  keep 
itunstolen  for  Fourteen  whole  years, —  and 
take  what  we  could  get  for  it. 

But,  in  a  word.  Monsieur  Boehmer  has 
made  his  Necklace,  what  he  calls  made 
it :  happy  man  is  he.  From  a  Drawing,  as 
large  as  reality,  kindly  furnished  by  "Tau- 
nay,  Printseller,  of  the  Rue  d'Enfer  "  ;  and 
again,  in  late  years,  by  the  Abbe  Georgel, 
in  the  Second  Volume  of  his  "  Memoiresr" 
curious  readers  can  still  fancy  to  themselves 
what  a  princely  Ornament  it  was.   A  row 


^    26    ^ 

of  seventeen  glorious  diamonds,  as  large 
almost  as  filberts,  encircle,  not  too  tightly, 
the  neck,  a  first  time.  Looser,  gracefully 
fastened  thrice  to  these,  a  three-wreathed 
festoon,  and  pendants  enough  (simple  pear- 
shaped,  multiple  star-shaped,  or  clustering 
amorphous)  encircle  it,  enwreath  it,  a  sec- 
ond time.  Loosest  of  all,  softly  flowing 
round  from  behind  in  priceless  catenary, 
rush  down  two  broad  threefold  rows  ;  seem 
to  knot  themselves,  round  a  very  Queen  of 
Diamonds,  on  the  bosom  ;  then  rush  on, 
again  separated,  as  if  there  were  length  in 
plenty ;  the  very  tassels  of  them  were  a  for- 
tune for  some  men.  And  now  lastly,  two 
other  inexpressible  threefold  rows,  also  with 
their  tassels,  will,  when  the  Necklace  is  on 
and  clasped,  unite  themselves  behind  into 
a  doubly  inexpressible  sixfold  row  ;  and  so 
stream  down,  together  or  asunder,  over  the 
hind-neck,  —  we  may  fancy,  like  lambent 
Zodiacal  or  Aurora-Borealis  fire. 

All  these  on  a  neck  of  snow  slight-tinged 


4^    2J    ^ 

with  rose-bloom,  and  within  it  royal  Life : 
amidst  the  blaze  oflustres;  in  sylphish  move- 
ments, espiegleries,  coquetteries,  and  min- 
uet-mazes; with  every  movement  a  flash 
of  star-rainbow  colours,  bright  almost  as 
the  movements  of  the  fair  young  soul  it 
emblems!  A  glorious  ornament;  fit  only 
for  the  Sultana  of  the  World.  Indeed, 
only  attainable  by  such ;  for  it  is  valued  at 
1,800,000  livres;  say  in  round  numbers, 
and  sterling  money,  between  eighty  and 
ninety  thousand  pounds. 


CHAPTER   III 

THE    NECKLACE    CANNOT    BE    SOLD 


M^i 


SCALCULATING  Boehmer. 

JL  V  JL  The  Sultana  of  the  Earth  shall  never 
wear  that  Necklace  of  thine ;  no  neck,  either 
royal  or  vassal,  shall  ever  be  the  lovelier  for 
it.  In  the  present  distressed  state  of  our 
finances,  with  the  American  War  raging 
round  us,  where  thinkest  thou  are  eighty 
thousand  pounds  to  be  raised  for  such  a 
thing?  In  this  hungry  world,  thou  fool, 
these  kvQ  hundred  and  odd  Diamonds, 
good  only  for  looking  at,  are  intrinsically 
worth  less  to  us  than  a  string  of  as  many  dry 
Irish  potatoes,  on  which  a  famishing  Sans- 
culotte might  fill  his  belly.  Little  knowest 
thou,  laughing  Joaillier-Bijoutier,  great  in 
thy  pride  of  place,  in  thy  pride  of  savoir- 
fairey  what  the  world  has  in  store  for  thee. 
Thou    laughest    there;    by-and-by  thou 


^     29    ^ 

wilt  laugh  on  the  wrong  side  of  thy  face 
mainly. 

While  the  Necklace  lay  in  stucco  effigy, 
and  the  stones  of  it  were  still  "circulating 
in  Commerce,"  Du  Barry's  was  the  neck 
it  was  meant  for.  Unhappily,  as  all  dogs, 
male  and  female,  have  but  their  day,  her 
day  is  done;  and  now  (so  busy  has  Death 
been)  she  sits  retired,  on  mere  half-pay, 
without  prospects,  at  Saint-Cyr.  A  generous 
France  will  buy  no  more  neck-ornaments 
for  her:  —  O  Heaven!  the  Guillotine-axe 
is  already  forging  (North,  in  Swedish  Dale- 
carlia,  by  sledge-hammers  and  fire;  South, 
too,  by  taxes  and  tallies)  that  will  shear  her 
neck  in  twain ! 

But,  indeed,  what  of  Du  Barry?  Afoul 
worm ;  hatched  by  royal  heat,  on  foul  com- 
posts, into  a  flaunting  butterfly;  now  dis- 
winged,  and  again  a  worm !  Are  there  not 
Kings'  Daughters  and  Kings'  Consorts ;  is 
not  Decoration  the  first  wish  of  a  female 
heart,  —  often  also,  if  such  heart  is  empty, 


^  30  «§* 
the  last?  The  Portuguese  Ambassador  is 
here,  and  his  rigorous  Pombal  is  no  longer 
Minister:  there  is  an  Infanta  in  Portugal, 
purposing  by  Heaven's  blessing  to  wed. 
—  Singular!  the  Portuguese  Ambassador, 
though  without  fear  of  Pombal,  praises,  but 
will  not  purchase. 

Or  why  not  our  own  loveliest  Marie-An- 
toinette, once  Dauphiness  only ;  now  every 
inch  a  Queen :  what  neck  in  the  whole  Earth 
would  it  beseem  better?  It  is  fit  only  for 
her. — Alas,  Boehmer!  King  Louis  has  an 
eye  for  diamonds;  but  he,  too,  is  without 
overplus  of  money :  his  high  Queen  herself 
answers  queenlike,  "We  have  more  need 
of  Seventy-fours  than  of  Necklaces."  Lau- 
datur  et  alget  I  —  ^ot  without  a  qualmish 
feeling,  we  apply  next  to  the  Queen  and 
King  of  the  Two  Sicilies.  In  vain,  O  Boeh- 
mer! In  crowned  heads  there  is  no  hope 
for  thee.  Not  a  crowned  head  of  them  can 
spare  the  eighty  thousand  pounds.  The  age 
of  Chivalry  is  gone,  and  that  of  Bankruptcy 


4^  31  ^ 
is  come,  A  dull,  deep,  presaging  movement 
rocks  all  thrones:  Bankruptcy  is  beating 
down  the  gate,  and  no  Chancellor  can  longer 
barricade  her  out.  She  will  enter;  and  the 
shoreless  fire-lava  of  Democracy  is  at  her 
back!  Well  may  Kings,  a  second  time, 
"sit  still  with  awful  eye,"  and  think  of  far 
other  things  than  Necklaces. 

Thus  for  poor  Boehmer  are  the  mourn- 
fullest  days  and  nights  appointed ;  and  this 
high-promising  year  (1780,  as  we  labori- 
ously guess  and  gather)  stands  blacker  than 
all  others  in  his  calendar.  In  vain  shall  he, 
on  his  sleepless  pillow,  more  and  more  des- 
perately revolve  the  problem ;  it  is  a  prob- 
lem of  the  insoluble  sort,  a  true  "  irreducible 
case  of  Cardan":  the  Diamond  Necklace 
will  not  sell. 


\ 


CHAPTER   IV 
affinities:  the  two  fixed-ideas 

NEVERTHELESS,  a  man's  little 
Work  lies  not  isolated,  stranded;  a 
whole  busy  VV^orld,a  whole  native-element 
of  mysterious  never-resting  Force,  environs 
it ;  will  catch  it  up ;  will  carry  it  forward,  or 
else  backward  :  always,  infallibly,  either  as 
living  growth,  or  at  worst  as  well-rotted 
manure,  the  Thing  Done  will  come  to  use. 
Often,  accordingly,  for  a  man  that  had  fin- 
ished any  little  work,  this  were  the  most 
interesting  question  In  such  a  boundless 
whirl  of  a  world,  what  hook  will  it  be,  and 
what  hooks,  that  shall  catch  up  this  little 
work  of  mine ;  and  whirl  //  also,  —  through 
such  a  dance  ?  A  question,  we  need  not  say, 
which,  in  the  simplest  of  cases,  would  bring 
the  whole  Royal  Society  to  a  non-plus.  — 
Good  Corsican  Letitia !  while  thou  nursest 


^  33  "^ 
thy  little  Napoleon,  and  he  answers  thy 
mother-smile  with  those  deep  eyes  of  his, 
a  world-famous  French  Revolution,  with 
Federations  of  the  Champ  de  Mars,  and 
September  Massacres,  and  Bakers*  Cus- 
tomers en  queue,  is  getting  ready  :  many  a 
Danton  and  Desmoulins ;  prim-visaged, 
TartufFe-looking  Robespierre,  as  yet  all 
schoolboys  ;  and  Marat  weeping  bitter 
rheum,  as  he  pounds  horse-drugs, —  are 
preparing  the  fittest  arena  for  him  ! 

Thus,  too,  while  poor  Boehmer  is  busy 
with  those  Diamonds  of  his,  picking  them 
"out  of  Commerce,"  and  his  craftsmen  are 
grinding  and  setting  them ;  a  certain  ecclesi- 
astical Coadjutor  and  Grand  Almoner,  and 
prospective  Commendator  and  Cardinal,  is 
in  Austria,  hunting  and  giving  suppers ;  for 
whom  mainly  it  is  that  Boehmer  and  his 
craftsmen  so  employ  themselves.  Strange 
enough,  once  more  !  The  foolish  Jeweller  at 
Paris,  making  foolish  trinkets  ;  the  foolish 
Ambassador  at  Vienna,  making  blunders 


^  34  ^ 
and  debaucheries:  these  Two,  all  uncom- 
municating,  wide  asunder  as  the  Poles,  are 
hourly  forging  for  each  other  the  won- 
derfullest  hook-and-eye ;  which  will  hook 
them  together,  one  day, —  into  artificial 
Siamese-Twins,  for  the  astonishment  of 
mankind. 

Prince  Louis  de  Rohan  Is  one  of  those  se- 
lect mortals  born  to  honours,  as  the  sparks 
fly  upwards ;  and,  alas,  also  (as  all  men  are) 
to  troubles  no  less.  Of  his  genesis  and  de- 
scent much  might  be  said,  by  the  curious 
in  such  matters ;  yet,  perhaps,  if  we  weigh 
it  well,  intrinsically  little.  He  can,  by  dili- 
gence and  faith,  be  traced  back  some  hand- 
breadth  or  two,  some  century  or  two ;  but 
after  that,  merges  in  the  mere  "blood-royal 
of  Brittany  ";  long,  long  on  this  side  of  the 
Northern  Immigrations,  he  is  not  so  much 
as  to  be  sought  for ;  —  and  leaves  the  whole 
space  onwards  from  that,  into  the  bosom  of 
Eternity,  a  blank,  marked  only  by  one  point, 
the  Fall  of  Man  !  However,  and  what  alone 


^  35  ^ 
concerns  us,  his  kindred,  in  these  quite  re- 
cent times,  have  been  much  about  the  Most 
ChristianMajesty;  could  there  pick  up  what 
was  going.  In  particular,  they  have  had  a 
turn  of  some  continuance  for  Cardinalship 
and  Commendatorship.  Safest  trades  these, 
of  the  calm,  do-nothing  sort:  in  the  do- 
something  line,  in  Generalship,  or  such  like 
(witness  poor  Cousin  Soubise,at  Rosbach), 
they  might  not  fare  so  well.  In  any  case, 
the  actual  Prince  Louis,  Coadjutor  at  Stras- 
burg,  while  his  uncle  the  Cardinal- Arch- 
bishop has  not  yet  deceased,  and  left  him 
his  dignities,  but  only  fallen  sick,  already 
takes  his  place  on  one  grandest  occasion : 
he,  thrice-happyCoadjutor,  receives  the  fair, 
young,  trembling  Dauphiness,  Marie-An- 
toinette, on  her  first  entrance  into  France  ; 
and  can  there,  as  Ceremonial  Fugleman, 
with  fit  bearing  and  semblance  (being  a  tall 
man,  of  six-and-thirty),  do  the  needful. 
Of  his  other  performances  up  to  this  date, 
a  refined  History  had  rather  say  nothing. 


^  36  ^ 
In  fact,  if  the  tolerating  mind  will  medi- 
tate it  with  any  sympathy,  what  could  poor 
Rohan  perform?  Performing  needs  light, 
needs  strength,  and  a  firm  clear  footing ; 
all  of  which  had  been  denied  him.  Nour- 
ished, from  birth,  with  the  choicest  physical 
spoon-meat,  indeed ;  yet  also,  with  no  better 
spiritual  Doctrine  and  Evangel  of  Life  than 
a  French  Court  of  Louis  the  Well-beloved 
could  yield  ;  gifted,  moreover,  and  this  too 
was  but  a  new  perplexity  for  him,  with 
shrewdness  enough  to  see  through  much, 
with  vigour  enough  to  despise  much ;  un- 
happily, not  with  vigour  enough  to  spurn 
it  from  him,  and  be  forever  enfranchised 
of  it, — he  awakes,  at  man's  stature,  with 
man's  wild  desires,  in  a  World  of  the  merest 
incoherent  Lies  and  Delirium;  himself  a 
nameless  Mass  of  delirious  Incoherences, 
—  covered  over  at  most,  and  held  in  little, 
by  conventional  Politesse,  and  a  Cloak  of 
prospective  Cardinal's  Plush.  Are  not  in- 
trigues, might  Rohan  say,  the  industry  of 


4^  37  ^ 
this  our  Universe ;  nay,  is  not  the  Universe 
itself,  at  bottom,  properly  an  intrigue  ?  A 
Most  Christian  Majesty,  in  the  Parc-aux- 
cerfs;  he,  thou  seest,  is  the  god  of  this 
lower  world  ;  in  the  fight  of  Life,  our  war- 
banner  and  celestial  En-touto-nika  is  a 
Strumpet's  Petticoat ;  these  are  thy  gods, 
O  France  !  —  What,  in  such  singular  cir- 
cumstances, could  poor  Rohan's  creed  and 
world-theory  be,  that  he  should  "  perform  " 
thereby  ?  Atheism  ?  Alas,  no  ;  not  even 
Atheism  :  only  Machiavellism ;  and  the  in- 
destructible faith  that  "ginger  is  hot  in  the 
mouth."  Get  ever  new  and  better  ginger, 
therefore ;  chew  it  ever  the  more  diligently : 
*t  is  all  thou  hast  to  look  to,  and  that  only 
for  a  day. 

Ginger  enough,  poor  Louis  de  Rohan : 
too  much  of  ginger  !  Whatsoever  of  it,  for 
the  five  senses,  money,  or  money's  worth, 
or  backstairs  diplomacy,  can  buy;  nay,  for 
the  sixth  sense,  too,  the  far  spicier  ginger. 
Antecedence    of  thy    fellow-creatures,  — 


4^  38  ^ 
merited,  at  least,  by  infinitely  finer  hous- 
ing than  theirs.  Coadjutor  of  Strasburg, 
Archbishop  of  Strasburg,  Grand  Almoner 
of  France,  Commander  of  the  Order  of  the 
Holy  Ghost,  Cardinal  Commendator  of  St. 
Wast  d' Arras  (one  of  the  fattest  benefices 
here  below) :  all  these  shall  be  housings  for 
Monseigneur:  to  all  these  shall  his  Jesuit 
Nursing-mother,  our  vulpine  Abbe  Geor- 
gel,  through  fair  court-weather  and  through 
foul,  triumphantly  bear  him  ;  and  wrap  him 
with  them,  fat,  somnolent  Nursling  as  he 
is.  —  By  the  way,  a  most  assiduous,  ever- 
wakeful  Abbe  is  this  Georgel ;  and  wholly 
Monseigneur*s.  He  has  scouts  dim-flying, 
far  out,  in  the  great  deep  of  the  world's 
business;  has  spider-threads  that  overnet 
the  whole  world;  himself  sits  in  the  centre, 
ready  to  run.  In  vain  shall  King  and  Queen 
combine  against  Monseigneur:  "I  was  at 
M.deMaurepas' pillow  before  six,"  —  per- 
suasively wagging  my  sleek  coif,  and  the 
sleek  reynard-head  under  it ;  I  managed  it 


4^  39  ^ 
all  for  him.  Here,  too,  on  occasion  of  Rey- 
nard Georgel,  we  could  not  but  reflect  what 
a  singular  species  of  creature  your  Jesuit 
must  have  been.  Outwardly,  you  would 
say,  a  man ;  the  smooth  semblance  of  a 
man :  inwardly,  to  the  centre,  filled  with 
stone  !  Yet  in  all  breathing  things,  even  in 
stone  Jesuits,  are  inscrutable  sympathies : 
how  else  does  a  Reynard  Abbe  so  loyally 
give  himself,  soul  and  body,  to  a  somno- 
lent Monseigneur  ;  —  how  else  does  the 
poor  Tit,  to  the  neglect  of  its  own  eggs 
and  interests,  nurse  up  a  huge  lumbering 
Cuckoo;  and  think  its  pains  all  paid,  if  the 
soot-brown  Stupidity  will  merely  grow  big- 
ger and  bigger  !  —  Enough,  by  Jesuitic  or 
other  means.  Prince  Louis  de  Rohan  shall 
be  passively  kneaded  and  baked  into  Com- 
mendator  of  St.  Wast  and  much  else;  and 
truly  such  a  Commendator  as  hardly,  since 
King  Thierri,  first  of  the  FaMans,  founded 
that  'Establishment,  has  played  his  part 
there. 


4^  40  ^ 
Such,  however,  have  Nature  and  Art 
combined  together  to  make  Prince  Louis. 
A  figure  thrice-clothed  with  honours ;  with 
plush,  and  civic  and  ecclesiastic  garniture 
of  all  kinds;  but  in  itself  little  other  than 
an  amorphous  congeries  of  contradictions, 
somnolence  and  violence,  foul  passions  and 
foul  habits.  It  is  by  his  plush  cloaks  and 
wrappages  mainly,  as  above  hinted,  that 
such  a  figure  sticks  together:  what  we  call 
"  coheres,"  in  any  measure ;  were  it  not  for 
these,  he  would  flow  out  boundlessly  on  all 
sides.  Conceive  him  farther,  with  a  kind 
of  radical  vigour  and  fire,  for  he  can  see 
clearly  at  times,  and  speak  fiercely ;  yet  left 
in  this  way  to  stagnate  and  ferment,  and  lie 
overlaid  with  such  floods  of  fat  material : 
have  we  not  a  true  image  of  the  sham,e- 
fullest  Mud-volcano,  gurgling  and  slut- 
tishly  simmering,  amid  continual  steamy 
indistinctness,  —  except  as  was  hinted,  in 
wind-gusts ;  with  occasional  terrifico-absurd 
mud-explosions ! 


4^  41    ^ 

This,  garnish  it  and  fringe  it  never  so 
handsomely,  is,  alas,  the  intrinsic  character 
of  Prince  Louis.  A  shameful  spectacle: 
such,  however,  as  the  world  has  beheld 
many  times ;  as  it  were  to  be  wished,  but 
is  not  yet  to  be  hoped,  the  world  might 
behold  no  more.  Nay,  are  not  all  possible 
delirious  incoherences,  outward  and  inward, 
summed  up,  for  poor  Rohan,  in  this  one 
incrediblest  incoherence,  that  he^  Prince 
Louis  de  Rohan,  is  named  Priest,  Cardinal 
of  the  Church  ?  A  debauched,  merely  li- 
bidinous mortal,  lying  there  quite  helpless, 
^/Vsolute  (as  we  well  say);  whom  to  see 
Church  Cardinal^  symbolical  Hinge  or  main 
Corner  of  the  Invisible  Holy  in  this  World, 
an  Inhabitant  of  Saturn  might  split  with 
laughing,  —  if  he  did  not  rather  swoon  with 
pity  and  horror! 

Prince  Louis,  as  ceremonial  fugleman  at 
Strasburg,  might  have  hoped  to  make  some 
way  with  the  fair  young  Dauphiness;  but 
seems  not  to  have  made  any.  Perhaps,  in 


4-  4^  ^ 
those  great  days,  so  trying  for  a  fifteen-years 
Bride  and  Dauphiness,  the  fair  Antoinette 
was  too  preoccupied :  perhaps,  in  the  very 
face  and  looks  of  Prospective-Cardinal 
Prince  Louis,  her  fair  young  soul  read,  all 
unconsciously, an  incoherenti?<?«^-ism,  bot- 
tomless Mud-volcanoism  ;  from  which  she 
by  instinct  rather  recoiled. 

However,  as  above  hinted,  he  is  now 
gone,  in  these  years,  on  Embassy  to  Vienna: 
with  "  four-and-twenty  pages "  (if  our  re- 
membrance of  Abbe  Georgel  serve)  "  of 
noble  birth,"  all  in  scarlet  breeches ;  and 
such  a  retinue  and  parade  as  drowns  even 
his  fat  revenue  in  perennial  debt.  Above 
all  things,  his  Jesuit  Familiar  is  with  him. 
For  so  everywhere  they  must  manage:  Emi- 
nence Rohan  is  the  cloak,  Jesuit  Georgel 
the  man  or  automaton  within  it.  Rohan,  in- 
deed, sees  Poland  a-partitioning;  or  rather 
Georgel,  with  his  "masked  Austrian"  trai- 
tor "  on  the  ramparts,"  sees  it  for  him  :  but 


^  43  ^ 
what  can  he  do?  He  exhibits  his  four- 
and-twenty  scarlet  pages,  —  who,  we  find, 
"smuggle**  to  quite  unconscionable  lengths; 
rides  through  a  Catholic  procession,  Pro- 
spective-Cardinal though  he  be,  because 
it  is  too  long  and  keeps  him  from  an  ap- 
pointment; hunts,  gallants ;  gives  suppers, 
Sardanapalus-wise,  the  finest  ever  seen 
in  Vienna.  Abbe  Georgel,  as  we  fancy  it 
was,  writes  a  Despatch  in  his  name  "  every 
fortnight";  —  mentions,  in  one  of  these, 
that  "  Maria  Theresa  stands,  indeed,  with 
the  handkerchief  in  one  hand,  weeping  for 
the  woes  of  Poland;  but  with  the  sword  in 
the  other  hand,  ready  to  cut  Poland  in  sec- 
tions, and  take  her  share.**  Untimely  joke ; 
which  proved  to  Prince  Louis  the  root  of 
unspeakable  chagrins !  For  Minister  D*Ai- 
guillon  (much  against  his  duty)  communi- 
cates the  Letter  to  King  Louis;  Louis  to 
Du  Barry,  to  season  her  souper,  and  laughs 
over  it ;  the  thing  becomes  a  Court  joke  ; 
the  filially-pious  Dauphiness  hears  it,  and 


^  44  ^ 
remembers  it.  Accounts  go,  moreover,  that 
Rohan  spake  censuringly  of  the  Dauphin- 
ess  to  her  mother:  this  probably  is  but  hear- 
say and  false ;  the  devout  Maria  Theresa 
disliked  him,  and  even  despised  him,  and 
vigorously  laboured  for  his  recall. 

Thus,  in  rosy  sleep  and  somnambulism, 
or  awake  only  to  quaff  the  full  wine-cup  of 
the  Scarlet  Woman  his  Mother,  and  again 
sleep  and  somnambulate,  does  the  Prospect- 
ive-Cardinal and  Commendator  pass  his 
days.  Unhappy  man  !  This  is  not  a  world 
which  was  made  in  sleep ;  which  it  is  safe  to 
sleep  and  somnambulate  in.  In  that "  loud- 
roaring  Loom  of  Time"  (where  above  nine 
hundred  millions  of  hungry  Men,  for  one 
item,  restlessly  weave  and  work),  so  many 
threads  fly  humming  from  their  "  eternal 
spindles";  and  swift  invisible  shuttles,  far 
darting,  to  the  Ends  of  the  World,  —  com- 
plex enough  !  At  this  hour,  a  miserable 
Boehmer  in  Paris,  whom  thou  wottest  not 
of,  is  spinning,  of  diamonds  and  gold,  a 


^  45  ^ 
paltry  thrum  that  will  go  nigh  to  strangle 
the  life  out  of  thee. 

Meanwhile,  Louis  the  Well-beloved  has 
left,  forever,  his  Parc-aux-cerfs ;  and,  amid 
the  scarce-suppressed  hootings  of  the  world, 
taken  up  his  last  lodging  at  Saint-Denis. 
Feeling  that  it  was  all  over  (for  the  small- 
pox has  the  victory,  and  even  Du  Barry  is 
off),  he,  as  the  Abbe  Georgel  records, "  made 
the  amende  honorable  to  God  "  (these  are  his 
Reverence's  own  words);  had  a  true  repent- 
ance of  three  days*  standing;  and  so,  con- 
tinues the  Abbe, "  fell  asleep  in  the  Lord." 
Asleep  in  the  Lord,  Monsieur  TAbbe !  If 
such  a  mass  of  Laziness  and  Lust  fell  asleep 
in  the  Lord,  who^  fanciest  thou,  is  it  that 
falls  asleep  —  elsewhere  ?  Enough  that  he 
did  fall  asleep ;  that  thick-wrapt  in  the 
Blanket  of  the  Night,  under  what  keeping 
we  ask  not,  he  never  through  endless  Time 
can,  for  his  own  or  our  sins,  insult  the  face 
of  the  Sun  any  more;  —  and  so  now  we  go 


onward,  if  not  to  less  degrees  of  beastliness, 
yet,  at  least  and  worst,  to  cheering  varieties 
of  it. 

Louis  XVI  therefore  reigns  (and,  under 
the  Sieur  Gamain,  makes  locks)  ;  his  fair 
Dauphiness  has  become  a  Queen.  Emi- 
nence Rohan  is  home  from  Vienna ;  to  con- 
dole and  congratulate.  He  bears  a  letter 
from  Maria  Theresa ;  hopes  the  Queen  will 
not  forget  old  Ceremonial  Fuglemen,  and 
friends  of  the  Dauphiness.  Heaven  and 
Earth  !  The  Dauphiness  Queen  will  not 
see  him ;  orders  the  Letter  to  be  sent  her. 
The  King  himself  signifies  briefly  that  he 
"  will  be  asked  for  when  wanted  ! " 

Alas  !  at  Court,  our  motion  is  the  deli- 
catest,  unsurest.  We  go  spinning,  as  it  were, 
on  teetotums,  by  the  edges  of  bottomless 
deeps.  Rest  is  fall ;  so  is  one  false  whirl.  A 
moment  ago.  Eminence  Rohan  seemed 
waltzing  with  the  best:  but,  behold,  his 
teetotum  has  carried  him  over ;  there  is  an 
inversion  of  the  centre  of  gravity ;  and  so 


i 


^  47   ^ 
now,  heels  uppermost,  velocity  increasing 
as  the  time,  space  as  the  square  of  the  time, 
—  he  rushes. 

On  a  man  of  poor  Rohan's  somnolence 
and  violence,  the  sympathising  mind  can 
estimate  what  the  effect  was.  Consternation, 
stupefaction,  the  total  jumble  of  blood, 
brains,  and  nervous  spirits ;  in  ear  and  heart, 
only  universal  hubbub  and  louder  and 
louder  singing  of  the  agitated  air.  A  fall 
comparable  to  that  of  Satan  !  Men  have, 
indeed,  been  driven  from  Court ;  and  borne 
it,  according  to  ability.  Choiseul,  in  these 
very  years,  retired  Parthianlik:e,with  asmile 
or  scowl ;  and  drew  half  the  Court-host 
along  with  him.  Our  Wolsey,  though  once 
an  Ego  et  Rex  meus^  could  journey,  it  is  said, 
without  strait-waistcoat,  to  his  monastery ; 
and  there,  telling  beads,  look  forward  to  a 
still  longer  journey.  The  melodious,  too 
soft-strung  Racine,  when  his  King  turned 
his  back  on  him,  emitted  one  meek  wail, 
and  submissively  — died.  But  the  case  of 


4^  48  ^ 
Coadjutor  de  Rohan  differed  from  all  these. 
No  loyalty  was  in  him,  that  he  should  die; 
no  self-help,  that  he  should  live  ;  no  faith, 
that  he  should  tell  beads.  His  is  a  mud- 
volcanic  character  ;  incoherent,  mad,  from 
the  very  foundation  of  it.  Think,  too,  that 
his  Courtiership  (for  how  could  any  noble- 
ness enter  there  ?)  was  properly  a  gambling 
speculation  :  the  loss  of  his  trump  Queen 
of  Hearts  can  bring  nothing  but  flat,  un- 
redeemed despair.  No  other  game  has  he, 
in  this  world,  —  or  in  the  next.  And  then 
the  exasperating  Why?  The  How  came  it  ? 
For  that  Rohanic,  or  Georgelic,  sprightli- 
ness  of  the  "  handkerchief  in  one  hand,  and 
sword  in  the  other,"  if,  indeed,  that  could 
have  caused  it  all,  has  quite  escaped  him. 
In  the  name  of  Friar  Bacon's  Head,  what 
was  it?  Imagination,  with  Desperation  to 
drive  her,  may  fly  to  all  points  of  Space;  — 
and  returns  with  wearied  wings,  and  no  tid- 
ings. Behold  me  here:  this,  which  is  the  first 
grand  certainty  for  man  in  general,  is  the 


4f  49  ^ 
first  and  last  and  only  one  for  poor  Rohan. 
And  then  his  Here!  Alas,  looking  upwards, 
he  can  eye,  from  his  burning  marl,  the 
azure  realms,  once  his  ;  and  Cousin  Coun- 
tess de  Marsan,  and  so  many  Richelieus, 
Polignacs,  and  other  happy  angels,  male 
and  female,  all  blissfully  gyrating  there ; 

while  he ! 

Nevertheless  hope,  in  the  human  breast, 
though  not  in  the  diabolic,  springs  eternal. 
The  outcast  Rohan  bends  all  his  thoughts, 
faculties,  prayers,  purposes,  to  one  object; 
one  object  he  will  attain,  or  go  to  Bedlam, 
How  many  ways  he  tries ;  what  days  and 
nights  of  conjecture,  consultation;  what 
written  unpublished  reams  of  correspon- 
dence, protestation,  backstairs  diplomacy 
of  every  rubric  !  How  many  suppers  has 
he  eaten  ;  how  many  given,  —  in  vain  !  It  is 
his  morning  song,  and  his  evening  prayer. 
From  innumerable  falls  he  rises ;  only  to  fall 
again.  Behold  him  even,  with  his  red  stock- 
ings, at  dusk,  in  the  Garden  of  Trianon : 


4*  so  ^ 
he  has  bribed  the  Concierge;  will  see  her 
Majesty  in  spite  of  Etiquette  and  Fate; 
peradventure,  pitying  his  long  sad  King's- 
evil,  she  will  touch  him  and  heal  him.  In 
vain, — saysthe  Female  Historian,Campan. 
The  Chariot  of  Majesty  shoots  rapidly  by, 
with  high-plumed  heads  in  it;  Eminence  is 
known  by  his  red  stockings,  but  not  looked 
at,  only  laughed  at,  and  left  standing  like  a 
Pillar  of  Salt.  Thus  through  ten  long  years, 
of  new  resolve  and  new  despondency,  of 
flying  from  Saverne  to  Paris,  and  from  Paris 
to  Saverne,  has  it  lasted;  hope  deferred 
making  the  heart  sick.  Reynard  Georgel 
and  Cousin  de  Marsan,  by  eloquence,  by  in- 
fluence, and  being  "  at  M.  de  Maurepas' 
pillow  before  six,"  have  secured  the  Arch- 
bishopric, the  Grand  Almonership;  the 
Cardinalship  (by  the  medium  of  Poland); 
and,lastly,  to  tinker  many  rents,  and  appease 
the  Jews,  that  fattest  Commendatorship, 
founded  by  King  Thierri  the  Do-nothing 
— perhaps  with  a  view  to  such  cases.  All 


^  s^  ^ 

good!  languidly  croaks  Rohan;  yet  all  not 
the  one  thing  needful ;  alas,  the  Queen*s 
eyes  do  not  yet  shine  on  me. 

Abbe  Georgel  admits,  in  his  own  polite 
diplomatic  way,  that  the  Mud-volcano  was 
much  agitated  by  these  trials ;  and  in  time 
quite  changed.  Monseigneur  deviated  into 
cabalistic  courses,  after  elixirs,  philtres,  and 
the  philosopher's  stone ;  that  is,  the  volcanic 
steam  grew  thicker  and  heavier :  at  last  by 
Cagliostro's  magic  (for  Cagliostro  and  the 
Cardinal  by  elective  affinity  must  meet),  it 
sank  into  the  opacity  of  perfect  London 
fog !  So,  too,  if  Monseigneur  grew  chol- 
eric, wrapped  himself  up  in  reserve,  spoke 
roughly  to  his  domestics  and  dependents, 
—  were  not  the  terrifico-absurd  mud-explo- 
sions becoming  more  frequent  ?  Alas,  what 
wonder  ?  Some  nine-and-forty  winters  have 
now  fled  over  his  Eminence  (for  it  is  1783), 
and  his  beard  falls  white  to  the  shaver; 
but  age  for  him  brings  no  "  benefit  of  ex- 
perience." He  is  possessed  by  a  fixed-idea! 


4»  5^2  ^ 
Foolish  Eminence !  is  the  Earth  grown 
all  barren  and  of  a  snufF  colour,  because 
one  pair  of  eyes  in  it  look  on  thee  askance? 
Surely  thou  hast  thy  Body  there  yet :  and 
what  of  soul  might  from  the  first  reside  in 
it.  Nay,  a  warm,  snug  Body,  with  not  only 
five  senses  (sound  still,  in  spite  of  much 
tear  and  wear),  but  most  eminent  cloth- 
ing, besides ;  —  clothed  with  authority  over 
much,  with  red  Cardinal's  cloak,  red  Car- 
dinal's hat;  with  Commendatorship,  Grand- 
Almonership,  so  kind  have  thy  Fripiers 
been ;  with  dignities  and  dominions  too  te- 
dious to  name.  The  stars  rise  nightly,  with 
tidings  (for  thee  too,  if  thou  wilt  listen)  from 
the  infinite  Blue;  Sun  and  Moon  bring 
vicissitudes  of  season;  dressing  green,  with 
flower-borderings,  and  cloth  of  gold,  this 
ancient  ever-young  Earth  of  ours,  and  fill- 
ing her  breasts  with  all-nourishing  mother's 
milk.  Wilt  thou  work  ?  The  whole  Ency- 
clopaedia (not  Diderot's  only,  but  the  Al- 
mighty's) is  there  for  thee  to  spread  thy 


^  53  "^ 
broad  faculty  upon.  Or,  if  thou  have  no 
faculty,  no  Sense,  hast  thou  not,  as  already 
suggested.  Senses,  to  the  number  of  five  ? 
What  victuals  thou  wishest,  command ; 
with  what  wine  savoureth  thee,  be  filled. 
Already  thou  art  a  false,  lascivious  Priest ; 
with  revenues  of,  say,  a  quarter  of  a  million 
sterling;  and  no  mind  to  mend.  Eat,  fool- 
ish Eminence;  eat  with  voracity, — leaving 
the  shot  till  afterwards!  In  all  this  the  eyes 
of  Marie-Antoinette  can  neither  help  thee 
nor  hinder. 

And  yet,  what  is  the  Cardinal,  dissolute 
and  mud-volcano  though  he  be,  more  fool- 
ish herein,  than  all  Sons  of  Adam  ?  Give 
the  wisest  of  us  once  a  "  fixed-idea,"  — 
which,  though  a  temporary  madness,  who 
has  not  had? — and  see  where  his  wisdom 
is !  The  Chamois-hunter  serves  his  doomed 
seven  years  in  the  Quicksilver  Mines ;  re- 
turns salivated  to  the  marrow  of  the  back- 
bone ;  and  next  morning  —  goes  forth  to 
hunt  again.  Behold  Cardalion  King  of  Uri- 


4^  54  ^ 
nals ;  with  a  woeful  ballad  to  his  mistress's 
eyebrow!  He  blows  out,  Werter- wise,  his 
foolish  existence,  because  she  will  not  have 
it  to  keep  ;  —  heeds  not  that  there  are  some 
five  hundred  millions  of  other  mistresses  in 
this  noble  Planet ;  most  likely  much  such 
as  she.  O  foolish  men  !  They  sell  their  In- 
heritance (as  their  Mother  did  hers),  though 
it  is  Paradise,  for  a  crotchet :  will  they  not, 
in  every  age,  dare  not  only  grapeshot  and 
gallows-ropes,  but  Hell-fire  itself,  for  bet- 
ter sauce  to  their  victuals?  My  friends, 
beware  of  fixed-ideas. 

Here,  accordingly, is  poor  Boehmerwith 
one  in  his  head,  too  !  He  has  been  hawking 
his  "  irreducible  case  of  Cardan,"  that  N  eck- 
lace  of  his,  these  three  long  years,  through 
all  Palaces  and  Ambassadors*  Hotels,  over 
the  old  "  nine  Kingdoms,"  or  more  of  them 
than  there  now  are :  searching,  sifting  Earth, 
Sea,  and  Air,  for  a  customer.  To  take  his 
Necklace  in  pieces  ;  and  so,  losing  only  his 
manual  labour  and  expected  glory,  dissolve 


4^  55  ^ 

his  fixed-idea,  and  fixed-diamonds,  into 
current  ones  :  this  were  simply  casting  out 
the  Devil  —  from  himself;  a  miracle,  and 
perhaps  more !  For  he,  too,  has  a  Devil, 
or  Devils :  one  mad  object  that  he  strives 
at ;  that  he,  too,  will  attain,  or  go  to  Bed- 
lam. Creditors,  snarling,  hound  him  on 
from  without;  mocked  Hopes,  lost  La- 
bours, bear-bait  him  from  within  :  to  these 
torments  his  fixed-idea  keeps  him  chained. 
In  six-and-thirty  weary  revolutions  of  the 
Moon,  was  it  wonderful  the  man's  brain 
had  got  dried  a  little? 

Behold,  one  day,  being  Court-Jeweller, 
he,  too,  bursts,  almost  as  Rohan  had  done, 
into  the  Queen's  retirement,  or  apartment; 
flings  himself  (as  Campan  again  has  re- 
corded) at  her  Majesty's  feet;  and  there, 
with  clasped  uplifted  hands,  in  passionate 
nasal-gutturals,  with  streaming  tears  and 
loud  sobs,  entreats  her  to  do  one  of  two 
things :  Either  to  buy  his  necklace ;  or 
else  graciously  to  vouchsafe  him  her  royal 


4f  56  ^ 

permission  to  drown  himself  in  the  River 
Seine.  Her  Majesty,  pitying  the  distracted, 
bewildered  state  of  the  man,  calmly  points 
out  the  plain  third  course :  Depecez  voire 
Collier^  Take  your  Necklace  in  pieces ;  — 
adding  withal,  in  a  tone  of  queenly  rebuke, 
that  if  he  would  drown  himself,  he  at  all 
times  could,  without  her  furtherance. 

Ah,  bad  he  drowned  himself,  with  the 
Necklace  in  his  pocket;  and  Cardinal  Com- 
mendator  at  his  skirts  !  Kings,  above  all, 
beautiful  Queens,  as  far-radiant  Symbols 
on  the  pinnacles  of  the  world,  are  so  exposed 
to  madmen.  Should  these  two  fixed-ideas 
that  beset  this  beautifullest  Queen,  and  al- 
most burst  through  her  Palace-walls,  one 
day  unite,  and  this  not  to  jump  into  the 
River  Seine  :  —  what  maddest  result  may 
be  looked  for  ! 


CHAPTER  V 

THE    ARTIST 

IF  the  reader  has  hitherto,  in  our  too 
figurative  language,  seen  only  the  figur- 
ative hook  and  the  figurative  eye,  which 
Boehmer  and  Rohan,  far  apart,  were  re- 
spectively fashioning  for  each  other,  he  shall 
now  see  the  cunning  Milliner  (an  actual, 
unmetaphorical  Milliner)  by  whom  these 
two  individuals,  with  their  two  implements, 
are  brought  in  contact,  and  hooked  to- 
gether into  stupendous  artificial  Siamese- 
Twins  ;  —  after  which  the  whole  nodus  and 
solution  will  naturally  combine  and  unfold 
itself. 

Jeanne  de  Saint-Remi,  by  courtesy  or 
otherwise,  Countess  styled  also  of  ValoiSy 
and  even  of  France^  has  now,  in  this  year 
of  Grace  1783,  known  the  world  for  some 
seven-and-twenty  summers;  and  hadcrooks 


^  58  ^ 
in  her  lot.  She  boasts  herself  descended,  by 
what  is  called  natural  generation,  from  the 
Blood-Royal  of  France :  Henri  Second, 
before  that  fatal  tourney-lance  entered  his 
right  eye  and  ended  him,  appears  to  have 
had,  successively  or  simultaneously,  four — 
unmentionable  women :  and  so,  in  vice  of 
the  third  of  these,  came  a  certain  Henri  de 
Saint-Remi  into  this  world  ;  and,  as  High 
and  Puissant  Lord,  ate  his  victuals  and  spent 
his  days,  on  an  allotted  domain  of  Fon- 
tette,  near  Bar-sur- Aube,  in  Champagne.  Of 
High  and  Puissant  Lords,  at  this  Fontette, 
six  other  generations  followed ;  and  thus 
ultimately,  in  a  space  of  some  two  centuries, 
—  succeeded  in  realizing  this  brisk  little 
Jeanne  de  Saint-Remi,  here  in  question. 
But,  ah,  what  a  falling-off!  The  Royal 
Family  of  France  has  well-nigh  forgotten 
its  left-hand  collaterals :  the  last  High  and 
Puissant  Lord  (much  dipt  by  his  prede- 
cessors), falling  into  drink,  and  left  by  a 
scandalous  world  to  drink  his  pitcher  dry^ 


^  59  ^ 
had  to  alienate  by  degrees  his  whole  worldly 
Possessions,  down  almost  to  the  indispen- 
sable, or  inexpressibles ;  and  die  at  last  in  the 
Paris  Hotel-Dieu  ;  glad  that  it  was  not  on 
the  street.  So  that  he  has,  indeed,  given  a  sort 
of  bastard  royal  life  to  little  Jeanne,  and  her 
little  brother;  but  not  the  smallest  earth- 
ly provender  to  keep  it  in.  The  mother,  in 
her  extremity,  forms  the  wonderfullest  con- 
nections ;  and  little  Jeanne,  and  her  little 
brother,  go  out  into  the  highways  to  beg, 
A  charitable  Countess  Boulainvilliers, 
struck  with  the  little  bright-eyed  tatterde- 
malion from  the  carriage-window,  picks  her 
up ;  has  her  scoured,  clothed ;  and  rears  her, 
in  her  fluctuating,  miscellaneous  way,  to 
be,  about  the  age  of  twenty,  a  nondescript 
of  Mantuamaker,  Soubrette,  Court-beggar, 
Fine-lady,  Abigail,  and  Scion-of-Royalty. 
Sad  combination  of  trades  !  The  Court,  after 
infinite  soliciting,  puts  one  oflfwith  a  hungry 
dole  of  little  more  than  thirty  pounds  a-year. 
Nay,  the  audacious  Count  Boulainvilliers 


-#j   6o  «^ 

dares,  with  what  purposes  he  knows  best, 
to  offer  some  suspicious  presents  !  Where- 
upon his  good  Countess,  especially  as  Man- 
tuamaking  languishes,  thinks  it  could  not 
but  be  fit  to  go  down  to  Bar-sur-Aube ;  and 
there  see  whether  no  fractions  of  that  alien- 
ated Fontette  Property,  held  perhaps  on 
insecure  tenure,  may,  by  terror  or  cunning, 
be  recoverable.  Burning  her  paper  patterns, 
pocketing  her  pension  till  more  come.  Ma- 
demoiselle Jeanne  sallies  out  thither,  in  her 
twenty-third  year. 

Nourished  in  this  singular  way,  alternat- 
ing between  saloon  and  kitchen-table,  with 
the  loftiest  of  pretensions,  meanest  of  pos- 
sessions, our  poor  High  and  Puissant  Man- 
tuamaker  has  realized  for  herself  a  "  face 
not  beautiful,  yet  with  a  certain  piquancy"; 
dark  hair,  blue  eyes ;  and  a  character,  which 
the  present  Writer,  a  determined  student 
of  human  nature,  declares  to  be  undecipher- 
able. Let  the  Psychologists  try  it !  Jeanne 
de-Saint-Remi  de  Valois  de  France  actually 


4^  6i   ^ 

lived,  and  worked,  and  was:  she  has  even 
published,  at  various  times,  three  consider- 
able Volumes  of  Autobiography,  with  loose 
Leaves  (in  Courts  of  Justice)  of  unknown 
number;  wherein  he  that  runs  may  read, 
— but  not  understand.  Strange  Volumes! 
more  like  the  screeching  of  distracted  night- 
birds  (suddenly  disturbed  by  the  torch  of 
Police-Fowlers)  than  the  articulate  utter- 
ance of  a  rational  unfeathered  biped.  Cheer- 
fully admitting  these  statements  to  be  all 
lies;  we  ask.  How  any  mortal  could,  or 
should,  so  lie  ? 

The  Psychologists,  however,  commit 
one  sore  mistake;  that  ofsearching,  in  every 
character  named  human,  for  something  like 
a  conscience.  Being  mere  contemplative  re- 
cluses, for  most  part,  and  feeling  that  Mo- 
rality is  the  heart  of  Life,  they  judge  that 
with  all  the  world  it  is  so.  Nevertheless,  as 
practical  men  are  aware.  Life  can  go  on  in 
excellent  vigour,  without  crotchet  of  that 
kind.  What  is  the  essence  of  Life?  Voli- 


^    62    ^ 

tion?  Go  deeper  down,  you  find  a  much 
more  universal  root  and  characteristic:  Di- 
gestion. While  Digestion  lasts,  Life  cannot, 
in  philosophical  language,  be  said  to  be  ex- 
tinct: and  Digestion  will  give  rise  to  Voli- 
tions enough;  at  any  rate,  to  Desires  and 
attempts,  which  may  pass  for  such.  He  who 
looks  neither  before  nor  after,  any  farther 
than  the  Larder  and  Stateroom,  which  lat- 
ter is  properly  the  finest  compartment  of 
the  Larder,  will  need  no  World-theory, 
Creed  as  it  is  called,  or  Scheme  of  Duties  ; 
lightly  leaving  the  world  to  wag  as  it  likes 
with  any  theory  or  none,  his  grand  object  is 
a  theory  and  practice  of  ways  and  means. 
Not  goodness  or  badness  is  the  type  of 
him :  only  shiftiness  or  shiftlessness. 

And  now,  disburdened  of  this  obstruc- 
tion, let  the  Psychologists  consider  it  under 
a  bolder  view.  Consider  the  brisk  Jeanne 
de  Saint-Remi  de  Saint-Shifty  as  a  Spark 
of  vehement  Life,  not  developed  into  Will 
of  any  kind,  yet  fully  into  Desires  of  all 


:^?, 


^  63  ^ 
kinds,  and  cast  into  such  a  Life-element  as 
we  have  seen.  Vanity  and  Hunger;  a  Prin- 
cess of  the  Blood,  yet  whose  father  had  sold 
his  inexpressibles ;  uncertain  whether  fos- 
ter-daughter of  a  fond  Countess,  with  hopes 
sky-high,  or  supernumerary  Soubrette ; 
with  not  enough  of  mantuamaking:  in  a 
word,  Gigmanity  disgigged;  one  of  the  sad- 
dest, pitiable,  unpitied  predicaments  of  man! 
She  is  of  that  light  unreflecting  class,  of  that 
light  unreflecting  sex  v avium  semper  et  mu- 
labile.  And  then  her  Fine-ladyism,  though 
a  purseless  one :  capricious,  coquettish,  and 
with  all  the  finer  sensibilities  of  the  heart; 
now  in  the  rackets,  now  in  the  sullens ;  vivid 
in  contradictory  resolves;  laughing,  weep- 
ing, without  reason,  —  though  these  acts 
are  said  to  be  signs  of  reason.  Consider, 
too,  how  she  has  had  to  work  her  way,  all 
along,  by  flattery  and  cajolery ;  wheedling, 
eavesdropping,  namby-pambying:  how  she 
needs  wages,  and  knows  no  other  pro- 
ductive trades.  Thought  can  hardly  be  said 


^  64  ^ 
to  exist  in  her :  only  Perception  and  Device. 
With  an  understanding  lynx-eyed  for  the 
surface  of  things,  but  which  pierces  beyond 
the  surface  of  nothing;  every  individual 
thing  (for  she  has  never  seized  the  heart 
of  it)  turns  up  a  new  face  to  her  every  new 
day,  and  seems  a  thing  changed,  a  different 
thing.  Thus  sits,  or  rather  vehemently 
bobs  and  hovers  her  vehement  mind,  in 
the  middle  of  a  boundless  many-dancing 
whirlpool  of  gilt-shreds,  paper-clippings, 
and  windfalls, —  to  which  the  revolving 
chaos  of  my  Uncle  Toby*s  Smoke-jack  was 
solidity  and  regularity.  Reader!  thou  for 
thy  sins  must  have  met  with  such  fair 
Irrationals;  fascinating,  with  their  lively 
eyes,  with  their  quick  snappish  fancies ;  dis- 
tinguished in  the  higher  circles,  in  Fashion, 
even  in  Literature:  they  hum  and  buzz 
there,  on  graceful  film-wings; — searching, 
nevertheless,  with  the  wonderfullest  skill, 
for  honey;  "««tamable  as  flies!  '* 

Wonderfullest  skill  for  honey,  we  say ; 


^  6s  ^ 
and,  pray,  mark  that,  as  regards  this  Coun- 
tess de  Saint-Shifty.  Her  instinct-of-genius 
is  prodigious;  her  appetite  fierce.  In  any 
foraging  speculation  of  the  private  kind, 
she,  unthinking  as  you  call  her,  will  be  worth 
a  hundred  thinkers.  And  so  of  such  un- 
tamable flies  the  untamablest.  Mademoi- 
selle Jeanne,  is  now  buzzing  down,  in  the 
Bar-sur-Aube  Diligence ;  to  inspect  the 
honey-jars  of  Fontette;  and  see  and  smell 
whether  there  be  any  flaws  in  them. 

Alas,  at  Fontette,  we  can,  with  sensibility, 
behold  straw-roofs  we  were  nursed  under; 
farmers  courteously  ofi^er  cooked  milk,  and 
other  country  messes :  but  no  soul  will 
part  with  his  Landed  Property,  for  which, 
though  cheap,  he  declares  hard  money  was 
paid.  The  honey-jars  are  all  close,  then? 
—  However,  a  certain  Monsieur  de  La- 
motte,  a  tall  Gendarme,  home  on  furlough 
from  Luneville,  is  now  at  Bar;  pays  us 
attentions ;  becomes  quite  particular  in 
his  attentions,  —  for  we  have  a  face  "  with 


4^  66  ^ 
a  certain  piquancy,"  the  liveliest  glib-snap- 
pish tongue,  the  liveliest  kittenish  manner 
(not  yet  hardened  into  ca(-hood)y  with  thir- 
ty pounds  a-year,  and  prospects.  M.  de 
Lamotte,  indeed,  is  as  yet  only  a  private 
sentinel;  but  then  a  private  sentinel  in 
the  Gendarmes :  and  did  not  his  father  die 
fighting  "  at  the  head  of  his  company,"  at 
Minden  ?  Why  not  in  virtue  of  our  own 
Countesship  dub  him,  too,  Count;  by  left- 
hand  collateralism,  get  him  advanced?  — 
Finished  before  the  furlough  is  done  !  The 
untamablest  of  flies  has  again  buzzed  off; 
in  wedlock  with  M.  de  Lamotte  ;  if  not  to 
get  honey,  yet  to  escape  spiders  ;  and  so  lies 
in  garrison  at  Luneville,  amid  coquetries 
and  hysterics,  in  Gigmanity  disgigged, — 
disconsolate  enough. 

At  the  end  of  four  long  years  (too  long), 
M.  de  Lamotte,  or  call  him  now  Count  de 
Lamotte,  sees  good  to  lay  down  his  fighting- 
gear  (unhappily  still  only  the  musket),  and 
become  what  is  by  certain  moderns  called 


^  s^  ^ 

"  a  Civilian  "  :  not  a  Civil-Law  Doctor ; 
merely  a  Citizen,  one  who  does  not  live 
by  being  killed.  Alas!  cold  eclipse  has  all 
along  hung  over  the  Lamotte  household. 
Countess  Boulainvilliers,  it  is  true,  writes 
in  the  most  feeling  manner ;  but  then  the 
Royal  Finances  are  so  deranged  !  Without 
personal  pressing  solicitation,  on  the  spot, 
no  Court-solicitor,  were  his  pension  the 
meagrest,  can  hope  to  better  it.  At  Lune- 
ville  the  sun,  indeed,  shines  ;  and  there  is  a 
kind  of  Life ;  but  only  an  un-Parisian,  half 
or  quarter  Life ;  the  very  tradesmen  grow 
clamorous,  and  no  cunningly  devised  fable, 
ready-money  alone  will  appease  them. 
Commandant  Marquis  d'Autichamp  agrees 
with  Madame  Boulainvilliers  thatajourney 
to  Paris  were  the  project ;  whither,  also, 
he  himself  is  just  going.  Perfidious  Com- 
mandant Marquis !  His  plan  is  seen 
through  :  he  dares  to  presume  to  make  love 
to  a  Scion-of-Royalty ;  or  to  hint  that  he 
could  dare  to  presume  to  do  it !  Where- 


4f   68    ^ 

upon,  indignant  Count  de  Lamotte,  as  we 
said,  throws  up  his  commission,  and  down 
his  fire-arms,  without  further  delay.  The 
King  loses  a  tall  private  sentinel;  the  World 
has  a  new  black-leg:  and  Monsieur  and 
Madame  de  Lamotte  take  places  in  the 
Diligence  for  Strasburg. 

Good  Foster-Mother  Boulainvilliers, 
however,  is  no  longer  at  Strasburg  :  she  is 
forward  at  the  Archiepiscopal  Palace  in 
Saverne  ;  on  a  visit  there,  to  his  Eminence 
Cardinal  Commendator,  Grand-Almoner, 
Archbishop  Prince  Louis  de  Rohan!  Thus, 
then,  has  Destiny  at  last  brought  it  about. 
Thus,  after  long  wanderings,  on  paths  so  far 
separate,  has  the  time  come,  in  this  late  year 
1783,  when,  of  all  the  nine  hundred  millions 
of  the  Earth's  denizens,  these  preappointed 
Two  behold  each  other ! 

The  foolish  Cardinal,  since  no  sublunary 
means,  not  even  bribing  of  the  Trianon 
Concierge,  will  serve,  has  taken  to  the  su- 
perlunary :  he  is  here,  with  his  fixed-idea 


^  69  ^ 
and  volcanic  vaporoslty  darkening,  under 
Cagliostro's  management,  into  thicker  and 
thicker  opaque,  —  of  the  Black-Art  itself. 
To  the  glance  of  hungry  genius.  Cardinal 
and  Cagliostro  could  not  but  have  meaning. 
A  flush  of  astonishment,  a  sigh  over  bound- 
less wealth  (for  the  mountains  of  debt  lie 
invisible)  in  the  hands  of  boundless  Stupid- 
ity; some  vague  looming  of  indefinite  hope  : 
all  this  one  can  well  fancy.  But  alas,  what, 
to  a  high  plush  Cardinal,  is  a  now  insolvent 
Scion-of-Royalty,  —  though  with  a  face  of 
some  piquancy?  The  good  Foster-Mother's 
visit,  in  any  case,  can  last  but  three  days; 
then,  amid  old  namby-pambyings,  with  ef- 
fusions of  the  nobler  sensibilities  and  tears 
of  pity  at  least  for  one's  self.  Countess  de 
Lamotte,  and  husband,  must  off  with  her  to 
Paris,  and  new  possibilities  at  Court.  Only 
when  the  sky  again  darkens,  can  this  vague 
looming  from  Saverne  look  out,  by  fits,  as 
a  cheering  weather-sign. 


CHAPTER   VI 

WILL    THE    TWO    FIXED-IDEAS    UNITE? 

HOWEVER,  the  sky,  according  to 
custom,  is  not  long  in  darkening 
again.  The  King's  finances,  we  repeat,  are 
in  so  distracted  a  state !  No  D*Ormesson, 
no  Joly  de  Fleury,  wearied  with  milking  the 
already  dry,  will  increase  that  scandalous 
Thirty  Pounds  of  a  Scion-of-Royalty  by  a 
single  doit.  Calonne  himself,  who  has  a  will- 
ing ear  and  encouraging  word  for  all  mortals 
whatsover,  only  with  difficulty,  and  by  aid 
of  Madame  of  France,  raises  it  to  some 
still  miserable  Sixty-five.  Worst  of  all,  the 
good  Foster-Mother  Boulainvilliers,in  few 
months,  suddenly  dies:  the  wretched  wid- 
ower, sitting  there,  with  his  white  handker- 
chief, to  receive  condolences,  with  closed 
shutters,  mortuary  tapestries,  and  sepulchral 
cressets  burning  (which,  howeverj  the  in- 


4^  71  ^ 
stant  the  condolences  are  gone,  he  blows 
out,  to  save  oil),  has  the  audacity  again, 
amid  crocodile  tears,  to— -drop  hints !  Nay- 
more,  he,  wretched  man  in  all  senses, 
abridges  the  Lamotte  table;  will  besiege 
virtue  both  in  the  positive  and  negative 
way.  The  Lamottes,  wintry  as  the  world 
looks,  cannot  be  gone  too  soon. 

As  to  Lamotte  the  husband,  he,  for  shel- 
ter against  much,  decisively  dives  down  to 
the  "  subterranean  shades  of  Rascaldom  " ; 
gambles,  swindles  ;  can  hope  to  live,  mis- 
cellaneously, if  not  by  the  Grace  of  God, 
yet  by  the  Oversight  of  the  Devil,  —  for 
a  time.  Lamotte  the  wife  also  makes  her 
packages  :  and  waving  the  unseductive 
Count  Boulainvillier  Save-all  a  disdainful 
farewell,  removes  to  the  Belle  Image  in  Ver- 
sailles; there  within  wind  of  Court,  in  attic 
apartments,  on  poor  water-gruel  board,  re- 
solves to  await  what  can  betide.  So  much, 
in  few  months  of  this  fateful  year,  1783,  has 
come  and  gone. 


^  ^1  ^ 

Poor  Jeanne  de  Saint-Remi  de  Lamotte 
Valois,  Ex-Mantuamaker,  Scion-of-Roy- 
alty !  What  eye,  looking  into  those  bare 
attic  apartments  and  water-gruel  platters  of 
tht  Belle  Image,  but  must,  in  spite  of  itself, 
grow  dim  with  almost  a  kind  of  tear  for 
thee  !  There  thou  art,  with  thy  quick  live- 
ly glances,  face  of  a  certain  piquancy,  thy 
gossamer  untamable  character,  snappish  sal- 
lies, glib  all-managing  tongue ;  thy  whole 
incarnated, garmented, and  so  sharply  appe- 
tent  "  spark  of  Life  " ;  cast  down  alive  into 
this  World,  without  vote  of  thine  (for  the 
Elective  Franchises  have  not  yet  got  that 
length) ;  and  wouldst  so  fain  live  there.  Pay- 
ing scot-and-lot ;  providing,  or  fresh-scour- 
ing silk  court-dresses  ;  "  always  keeping  a 
gig  !  "  Thou  must  hawk  and  shark  to  and 
fro,  from  anteroom  to  anteroom  ;  become 
a  kind  of  terror  to  all  men  in  place,  and 
women  that  influence  such ;  dance  not 
light  Ionic  measures,  but  attendance  mere- 
ly ;  have  weepings,  thanksgiving  efflisions, 


^  73  ^ 
aulicj  almost  forensic,  eloquence  :  perhaps 
eke  out  thy  thin  livelihood  by  some  co- 
quetries, in  the  small  way;  —  and  so, most 
poverty-stricken,  cold-blighted,  yet  with 
young  keen  blood  struggling  against  it,  spin 
forward  thy  unequal  feeble  thread,  which 
the  Atropos-scissors  will  soon  clip ! 

Surely  now,  if  ever,  were  that  vague  loom- 
ing from  Saverne  welcome,  as  a  weather- 
sign.  How  doubly  welcome  is  his  plush 
Eminence's  personal  arrival ;  —  for  with 
the  earliest  spring  he  has  come  in  person, 
as  he  periodically  does ;  vaporific,  driven  by 
his  fixed-idea. 

Genius,  of  the  mechanical  practical  kind, 
what  is  it  but  a  bringing-together  of  two 
Forces  that  fit  each  other,  that  will  give 
birth  to  a  third?  Ever,  from  Tubalcain's 
time,  Iron  lay  ready  hammered;    Water,  t 

also,  was  boiling  and  bursting  ;  neverthe-  ^  *  i^ 

less,  for  want  of  a  genius,  there  was  as  yet 
no  Steam-engine.  In  his  Eminence  Prince 
Louis,  in  that  huge,  restless,  incoherent 


t 


^  1\  ^ 

Being  of  his,  depend  on  it,  brave  Countess, 
there  are  Forces  deep,  manifold  ;  nay,  a 
fixed-idea  concentrates  the  whole  huge  In- 
coherence as  it  were  into  one  Force :  can- 
not the  eye  of  genius  discover  its  fellow  ? 
Communing  much  with  the  Court  vale- 
taille,  our  brave  Countess  has  more  than 
once  heard  talk  of  Boehmer,  of  his  Neck- 
lace, and  threatened  death  by  water ;  in  the 
course  of  gossiping  and  tattling,  this  topic 
from  time  to  time  emerges  ;  is  commented 
upon  with  empty  laughter, — as  if  there  lay 
no  farther  meaning  in  it.  To  the  common 
eye  there  is,  indeed,  none :  but  to  the  eye  of 
genius  ?  In  some  moment  of  inspiration,  the 
question  rises  on  our  brave  Lamotte :  Were 
not  this,  of  all  extant  Forces,  the  cognate  one 
that  would  unite  with  Eminence  Rohan's? 

5  ^  Great  moment,  light-beaming,  fire-flashing ; 

^0  U  like  birth  of  Minerva;  like  all  moments  of 

Creation !  Fancy  how  pulse  and  breath  flut- 
ter, almost  stop,  in  the  greatness :  the  great 
not  Divine  Idea,  the  great  Diabolic  Idea,  is 


^  75  ^ 
too  big  for  her. — Thought  (how  often  must 
we  repeat  it?)  rules  the  world.  Fire  and,  in  a 
less  degree.  Frost ;  Earth  and  Sea  (for  what 
is  your  swiftest  ship,  or  steamship,  but  a 
Thought — embodied  in  wood?) ;  Reformed 
Parliaments,  rise  and  ruin  of  Nations, — sale 
of  Diamonds:  all  things  obey  Thought. 
Countess  de  Saint-Remi  de  Lamotte,  by 
power  of  Thought,  is  now  a  made  woman. 
With  force  of  genius  she  represses,  crushes 
deep  down,  her  Undivine  Idea ;  bends  all  her 
faculty  to  realise  it.  Prepare  thyself.  Reader, 
for  a  series  of  the  most  surprising  Dra- 
matic Representations  ever  exhibited  on 
any  stage. 

We  hear  tell  of  Dramatists,  and  scenic 
illusion  how  "  natural,"  how  illusive  it  was : 
if  the  spectator,  for  some  half-moment,  can 
half-deceive  himself  into  the  belief  that  it 
was  real,  he  departs  doubly  content.  With 
all  which,  and  much  more  of  the  like,  I  have 
no  quarrel.  But  what  must  be  thought  of 


4^  76  ^ 

theFemaleDramatistwho,  for  eighteen  long 
months,  can  exhibit  the  beautifullest  Fata- 
Morgana  to  a  plush  Cardinal,  wide  awake, 
with  fifty  years  on  his  head ;  and  so  lap  him 
in  her  scenic  illusion  that  he  never  doubts 
but  it  is  all  firm  earth,  and  the  pasteboard 
Coulisse-trees  are  producing  Hesperides 
apples?  Could  Madame  de  Lamotte,  then, 
have  written  a  "Hamlet"?  I  conjecture,  not. 
More  goes  to  the  writing  of  a  "Hamlet" 
than  completest"  imitation  "of  all  characters 
and  things  in  this  Earth ;  there  goes,  be- 
fore and  beyond  all,  the  rarest  understanding 
of  these,  insight  into  their  hidden  essences 
and  harmonies.  Erasmus's  Ape,  as  is  known 
in  Literary  History,  sat  by  while  its  master 
was  shaving,  and  "  imitated  "  every  point  of 
the  process;  but  its  own  foolish  beard  grew 
never  the  smoother. 

As  in  looking  at  a  finished  Drama,  it  were 
nowise  meet  that  the  spectator  first  of  all  got 
behind  the  scenes,  and  saw  the  burnt-corks, 
brayed-resin,  thunder-barrels,  and  withered 


4*  77  ^ 
hunger-bitten  men  and  women,  of  which 
such  heroic  work  was  made:  so  here  with  the 
reader.  A  peep  into  the  side-scenes  shall  be 
granted  him,  from  time  to  time.  But,  on  the 
whole,  repress,  O  reader,  that  too  insatiable 
scientific  curiosity  of  thine;  let  thy  esthetic 
feeling  first  have  play;  and  witness  what 
a  Prosperous-grotto  poor  Eminence  Rohan 
is  led  into,  to  be  pleased  he  knows  not 
why. 

Survey  first  what  we  might  call  the  stage- 
lights,  orchestra,  general  structure  of  the 
theatre,  mood  and  condition  of  the  audience. 
The  theatre  is  the  World,  with  its  restless 
business  and  madness ;  near  at  hand  rise  the 
royal  Domes  of  Versailles,  mystery  around 
them,  and  as  background  the  memory  of  a 
thousand  years.  By  the  side  of  the  River 
Seine  walks,  haggard,  wasted,  a  Joaillier- 
Bijoutier  de  la  Reine,  with  Necklace  in  his 
pocket.  The  audience  is  a  drunk  Christo- 
pher Sly  in  the  fittest  humour.  A  fixed-idea, 
driving  him  over  steep  places,  like  that  of 


4^  78  ^ 
the  Gadarenes'  Swine,  has  produced  a  de- 
ceptibility,  as  of  desperation,  that  will  clutch 
at  straws.  Understand  one  other  word ;  Cag- 
liostro  is  prophesying  to  him !  The  Quack 
of  Quacks  has  now  for  years  had  him  in  lead- 
ing. Transmitting  "predictions  in  cipher"; 
questioning,  before  Hieroglyphic  Screens, 
Columbs  in  a  state  of  innocence,  for  elixirs 
of  life,  and  philosopher's  stone;  unveiling, 
in  fuliginous  clear-obscure,  an  imaginary 
majesty  of  Nature ;  he  isolates  him  more 
and  more  from  all  unpossessed  men.  Was  it 
not  enough  that  poor  Rohan  had  become  a 
dissolute,  somnolent-violent,  ever-vapoury 
Mud-volcano;  but  black  Egyptian  magic 
must  be  laid  on  him  ! 

If  perhaps,  too,  our  Countess  de  La- 
motte,  with  her  blandishments  —  ?  For 
though  not  beautiful,  she  "has  a  certain 
piquancy,"^/  cetera  I — Enough,  his  poor 
Eminence  sits  in  the  fittest  place,  in  the 
fittest  mood :  a  newly-awakened  Christo- 
pher Sly ;  and  with  his  "  small  ale,"  too. 


4^  79  ^ 
beside  him.  Touch,  only,  the  lights  with 
fire-tipt   rod ;  and  let  the  orchestra,  soft- 
warbling,  strike  up  their  fara-lara  fiddle- 
diddle-dee ! 


CHAPTER   VII 

MARIE-ANTOINETTE 

SUCH  a  soft-warbling  fara-lara  was  it 
to  his  Eminence,  when,  in  early  Janu- 
ary of  the  year  1784,  our  Countess  first, 
mysteriously,  and  under  seal  of  sworn  se- 
crecy, hinted  to  him  that,  with  her  winning 
tongue  and  great  talent  as  Anecdotic  His- 
torian, she  had  worked  a  passage  to  the  ear 
of  Queen*s  Majesty  itself.  Gods !  dost  thou 
bring  with  thee  airs  from  Heaven  ?  Is  thy 
face  yet  radiant  with  some  reflex  of  that 
Brightness  beyond  bright?  —  Men  with 
fixed-idea  are  not  as  other  men.  To  listen 
to  a  plain  varnished  tale,  such  as  your  Dra- 
matist can  fashion  ;  to  ponder  the  words  ; 
to  snuflF  them  up,  as  Ephraim  did  the  east- 
wind,  and  grow  flatulent  and  drunk  with 
them  :  what  else  could  poor  Eminence  do  ? 
His  poor  somnolent,  so  swift-rocked  soul 


^   8i   ^1- 

feels  a  new  element  infused  into  it; turbid 
resinous  light,  wide-coruscating,  glares  over 
the  waste  of  his  imagination.  Is  he  inter- 
ested in  the  mysterious  tidings  ?  Hope  has 
seized  them ;  there  is  in  the  world  nothing 
else  that  interests  him. 

The  secret  friendship  of  Queens  is  not  a 
thing  to  be  let  sleep  :  ever  new  Palace  In- 
terviews occur ;  —  yet  in  deepest  privacy ; 
for  how  should  her  Majesty  awaken  so 
many  tongues  of  Principalities  and  Nobili- 
ties, male  and  female,  that  spitefully  watch 
her?  Above  all,  howeVer,  "on  the  2d  of 
February,"  that  day  of  "the  Procession 
of  blue  Ribands,"  much  was  spoken  of: 
somewhat,  too,  of  Monseigneur  de  Rohan ! 
—  Poor  Monseigneur  J  hadst  thou  three 
long  ears,  thou  'dst  hear  her. 

But  will  she  not,  perhaps,  in  some  future 
priceless  Interview,  speak  a  good  word  for 
thee  ?  Thyself  shalt  speak  it,  happy  Emi- 
nence ;  at  least,  write  it :  our  tutelary  Count- 
ess will  be  the  bearer!  —  On  the  21st  of 


4^   S2   ^ 

March  goes  off  that  long  exculpatory  im- 
ploratory  Letter :  it  is  the  first  Letter  that 
went  off  from  Cardinal  to  Queen ;  to  be 
followed,  in  time,  by  "above  two  hundred 
others  " ;  which  are  graciously  answered  by 
verbal  Messages,  nay,  at  length  by  Royal 
Autographs  on  gilt  paper,  —  the  whole  de- 
livered by  our  tutelary  Countess.  The  tute- 
lary Countess  comes  and  goes,  fetching  and 
carrying;  with  the  gravity  of  a  Roman  Au- 
gur, inspects  those  extraordinary  chicken- 
bowels,  and  draws  prognostics  from  them. 
Things  are  in  fair  train :  the  Dauphiness 
took  some  offence  at  Monseigneur,  but  the 
Queen  has  nigh  forgotten  it.  No,  inexor- 
able Queen ;  ah,  no !  So  good,  so  free, 
light-hearted ;  only  sore  beset  with  mali- 
cious Polignacs  and  others ;  —  at  times, 
also,  short  of  money. 

Marie-Antoinette,  as  the  reader  well 
knows,  has  been  much  blamed  for  want 
of  Etiquette.  Even  now,  when  the  other 


^  S3  ^ 
accusations  against  her  have  sunk  down  to 
oblivion  and  the  Father  of  Lies,  this  of 
wanting  Etiquette  survives  her;  —  in  the 
Castle  of  Ham,  at  this  hour,  M.  de  Poli- 
gnac  and  Company  may  be  wringing  their 
hands,  not  without  an  oblique  glance  at  ber 
for  bringing  them  thither.  She,  indeed,  dis- 
carded Etiquette  ;  once,  when  her  carriage 
broke  down,  she  even  entered  a  hackney- 
coach.  She  would  walk,  too,  at  Trianon,  in 
mere  straw-hat,  and  perhaps  muslin  gown  ! 
Hence,  the  Knot  of  Etiquette  being  loosed, 
the  Frame  of  Society  broke  up  ;  and  those 
astonishing  "  Horrors  of  the  French  Re- 
volution" supervened.  On  what  Damo- 
cles' hairs  must  the  judgment-sword  hang 
over  this  distracted  Earth  ?  Thus,  however, 
it  was  that  Tenterden  Steeple  brought  an 
influx  of  the  Atlantic  on  us,  and  so  Godwin 
Sands.  Thus,  too,  might  it  be  that  because 
Father  Noah  took  the  liberty  of,  say,  rins- 
ing out  his  wine-vat,  his  Ark  was  floated 
off,   and   a   world    drowned.  —  Beautiful 


^  84  ^ 
Highborn  thatwert  so  foully  hurled  low! 
For,  if  thy  Being  came  to  thee  out  of  old 
Hapsburg  Dynasties,  came  it  not  also  (like 
my  own)  out  of  Heaven  ?  Sunt  lachryma 
rerum,  et  mentem  mortalia  tangunt.  Oh,  is 
there  a  man's  heart  that  thinks,  without 
pity,  of  those  long  months  and  years  of 
slow-wasting  ignominy;  —  of  thy  birth, 
soft-cradled  in  Imperial  Schonbrunn,  the 
winds  of  heaven  not  to  visit  thy  face  too 
roughly,  thy  foot  to  light  on  softness,  thy 
eye  on  splendour;  and  then  of  thy  Death 
or  hundred  Deaths,  to  which  the  Guillo- 
tine and  FouquierTinville's  judgment-bar 
was  but  the  merciful  end?  Look  there^  O 
man  born  of  woman  !  The  bloom  of  that 
fair  face  is  wasted,  the  hair  is  grey  with  care ; 
the  brightness  of  those  eyes  is  quenched, 
their  lids  hang  drooping,  the  face  is  stony 
pale  as  of  one  living  in  death.  Mean  weeds, 
which  her  own  hand  has  mended,  attire  the 
Queen  of  the  World.  The  death-hurdle, 
where  thou  sittest  pale,  motionless,  which 


4»  85  «► 
only  curses  environ,  has  to  stop  :  a  people, 
drunk  with  vengeance,  will  drink  it  again 
in  full  draught,  looking  at  thee  there.  Far 
as  the  eye  reaches,  a  multitudinous  sea  of 
maniac  heads;  the  air  deaf  with  their  tri- 
umph-yell !  The  Living-dead  must  shud- 
der with  yet  one  other  pang ;  her  startled 
blood  yet  again  suffuses  with  the  hue  of 
agony  that  pale  face,  which  she  hides  with 
her  hands.  There  is  then  no  heart  to  say, 
God  pity  thee  ?  Oh,  think  not  of  these ; 
think  of  Him  whom  thou  worshippest,  the 
Crucified,  —  who  also  treading  the  wine- 
press alone,  fronted  sorrow  still  deeper; 
and  triumphed  over  it,  and  made  it  holy; 
and  built  of  it  a  "  Sanctuary  of  Sorrow," 
for  thee  and  all  the  wretched !  Thy  path  of 
thorns  is  nigh  ended.  One  long  last  look 
at  the  Tuileries,  where  thy  step  was  once  so 
light,  —  where  thy  children  shall  not  dwell. 
The  head  is  on  the  block ;  the  axe  rushes 
—  Dumb  lies  the  World  ;  that  wild-yelling 
World,  and  all  its  madness,  is  behind  thee. 


^   S6  ^ 

Beautiful  Highborn  that  wert  so  foully- 
hurled  low  !  Rest  yet  in  thy  innocent  grace- 
fully heedless  seclusion,  unintruded  on  by 
me,  while  rude  hands  have  not  yet  dese- 
crated it.  Be  the  curtains,  that  shroud-in 
(if  for  the  last  time  on  this  Earth)  a  Royal 
Life,  still  sacred  to  me.  Tby  fault,  in  the 
French  Revolution,  was  that  thou  wert  the 
Symbol  of  the  Sin  and  Misery  of  a  thou- 
sand years ;  that  with  Saint-Bartholomews, 
and  Jacqueries,  with  Gabelles,and  Dragon- 
ades,and  Parcs-aux-cerfs,  the  heart  of  man- 
kind was  filled  full,  —  and  foamed  over,  into 
all-involving  madness.  To  no  Napoleon,  to 
no  Cromwell  wert  thou  wedded:  such  sit 
not  in  the  highest  rank,  of  themselves;  are 
raised  on  high  by  the  shaking  and  confound- 
ing of  all  the  ranks !  As  poor  peasants,  how 
happy,  worthy  had  ye  two  been !  But  by 
evil  destiny  ye  were  made  a  King  and  Queen 
of;  and  so  both  once  more — are  become 
an  astonishment  and  a  by-word  to  all  times. 


CHAPTER   VIII 

THE    TWO    FIXED-IDEAS   WILL    UNITE 

COUNTESS  DE  LAMOTTE, 
then,  had  penetrated  into  the  confi- 
dence of  the  Queen?  Those  gilt-paper 
Autographs  were  actually  written  by  the 
Queen?"  Reader,  forget  not  to  repress 
that  too  insatiable  scientific  curiosity  of 
thine!  What  I  know  is,  that  a  certain 
Villette-de-Retaux,  with  military  whiskers, 
denizen  of  Rascaldom,  comrade  there  of 
Monsieur  le  Comte,  is  skillful  in  imitating 
hands.  Certain  it  is  also,  that  Madame  la 
Comtesse  has  penetrated  to  the  Trianon 
—  Doorkeeper's.  Nay,  as  Campan  herself 
must  admit,  she  has  met,  "  at  a  Man-mid- 
wife's in  Versailles,"  with  worthy  Queen's- 
valet  Lesclaux,  —  or  Desclos,  for  there  is 
no  uniformity  in  it.  With  these,  or  the  like 
of  these,  she  in  the  back-parlour  of  the 


^  4^   88  *§- 

Palace  itself  (If  late  enough),  may  pick  a 
merry-thought,  sip  the  foam  from  a  glass  of 
Champagne.  No  farther  seek  her  honours 
to  disclose,  for  the  present ;  or  anatomical- 
ly dissect,  as  we  said,  those  extraordinary 
chicken-bowels,  from  which  she^  and  she 
alone,  can  read  Decrees  of  Fate,  and  also 
realise  them. 

Sceptic,  seest  thou  his  Eminence  waiting 
there,  in  the  moonlight;  hovering  to  and  fro 
on  the  back  terrace,  till  she  come  out — from 
the  ineffable  Interview  ?  He  is  close  muffled ; 
walks  restlessly  observant;  shy  also,  and 
courting  the  shade.  She  comes :  up  closer 
with  thy  capote,  O  Eminence,  down  with 
thy  broadbrim ;  for  she.  has  an  escort.  *T  is 
but  the  good  Monsieur  Queen's-valet  Les- 
claux:  and  now  he  is  sent  back  again,  as  no 
longer  needful.  Mark  him,  Monselgneur, 
nevertheless ;  thou  wilt  see  him  yet  another 
time.  Monselgneur  marks  little:  his  heart 
is  in  the  ineffable  Interview,  in  the  gilt- 
paper  Autograph  alone. —  Queen's-valet 


^   89   ^ 
Lesclaux  ?    Me  thinks  he  has  much  the 
stature  of  Villette,  denizen  of  Rascaldom  ! 
Impossible!      no  ^«i. 

How  our  Countess  managed  with  Cagli- 
ostro  ?  Cagliostro,  gone  from  Strasburg,  is 
as  yet  far  distant,  winging  his  way  through 
dim  Space ;  will  not  be  here  for  months : 
only  his  "predictions  in  cipher"  are  here. 
Here  or  there,  however,  Cagliostro,  to  our 
Countess,  can  be  useful.  At  a  glance,  the  eye 
of  genius  has  descried  him  to  be  a  bottom- 
less slough  of  falsity,  vanity,  gulosity,  and 
thick-eyed  stupidity:  of  foulest  material, 
but  of  fattest; — fit  compost  for  the  Plant 
she  is  rearing.  Him  who  has  deceived  all 
Europe  she  can  undertake  to  deceive.  His 
Columbs,  demonic  Masonries,  Egyptian 
Elixirs,  what  is  all  this  to  the  light-giggling 
exclusively  practical  Lamotte  ?  It  runs  off 
from  her,  as  all  speculation,  good,  bad,  and 
indifferent,  has  always  done,  "like  water 
from  one  in  wax-cloth  dress."  With  the  lips 
meanwhile  she  can  honour  it;  Oil  of  Flat- 


4^  go  ^ 

tery,  the  best  patent  anti-friction  known, 
subdues  all  irregularities  whatsoever. 

On  Cagliostro,  again,  on  his  side,  a  cer- 
tain uneasy  feeling  might,  for  moments, 
intrude  itself;  the  raven  loves  not  ravens. 
But  what  can  he  do?  Nay,  she  is  partly 
playing  bis  game:  can  he  not  spill  her  full 
cup  yet,  at  the  right  season,  and  pack  her  out 
of  doors?  Oftenest  in  their  joyous  orgies, 
this  light,  fascinating  Countess — who  per- 
haps has  a  design  on  bis  heart  —  seems  to 
him  but  one  other  of  those  light  Papiliones, 
who  have  fluttered  round  him  in  all  climates ; 
whom  with  grim  muzzle  he  has  snapt  by 
the  thousand. 

Thus,  what  with  light,  fascinating  Coun- 
tess, what  with  Quack  of  Quacks,  poor 
Eminence  de  Rohan  lies  safe;  his  Mud- 
volcano  placidly  simmering  in  thick  Egyp- 
tian haze:  withdrawn  from  all  the  world. 
Moving  figures,  as  of  men,  he  sees;  takes 
not  the  trouble  to  look  at.   Court-cousins 


4t  91   ^ 

rally  him;  are  answered  in  silence;  or,  if 
it  go  too  far,  in  mud-explosions  terrifico- 
absurd.  Court-cousins  and  all  mankind  are 
unreal  shadows  merely;  Queen's  favour 
the  only  substance. 

Nevertheless,  the  World,  on  its  side,  too, 
has  an  existence ;  lies  not  idle  in  these  days. 
It  has  got  its  Versailles  Treaty  signed,  long 
months  ago;  and  the  plenipotentiaries  all 
home  again,  for  votes  of  thanks.  Paris,  Lon- 
don, and  other  great  Cities  and  small,  are 
working,  intriguing;  dying,  being  born. 
There,  in  the  Rue  Taranne,  for  instance,  the 
once  noisy  Denis  Diderot  has  fallen  silent 
enough.  Here  also,  in  Bolt  Court,  old  Sam- 
uel Johnson,  like  an  over-wearied  Giant, 
must  lie  down,  and  slumber  without  dream ; 
—  the  rattling  of  carriages  and  wains,  and 
all  the  world's  din  and  business  rolling 
by,  as  ever,  from  of  old.  —  Sieur  Boehmer, 
however,  has  not  yet  drowned  himself 
in  the  Seine;  only  walks  haggard,  wasted, 
purposing  to  do  it. 


^  9^  ^ 
News  (by  the  merest  accident  in  the 
world)  reach  Sieur  Boehmer,  of  Madame's 
new  favour  with  her  Majesty  !  Men  will  do 
much  before  they  drown.  Sieur  Boehmer's 
Necklace  is  on  Madame*s  table,  his  gut- 
tural-nasal rhetoric  in  her  ear:  he  will  abate 
many  a  pound  and  penny  of  the  first  just 
price;  he  will  give  cheerfully  a  thousand 
Louis-d'or,as  cadeau,to  the  generous  Scion- 
of-Royalty  that  shall  persuade  her  Majesty. 
The  man's  importunities  grow  quite  annoy- 
ing to  our  Countess ;  who,  in  her  glib  way, 
satirically  prattles  how  she  has  been  bored, 
—  to  Monselgneur,  among  others. 

Dozing  on  down  cushions,  far  inwards, 
with  soft  ministering  Hebes,  and  luxurious 
appliances;  with  ranked  Heyducs,  and  a 
Valetaille  innumerable,  that  shut  out  the 
prose- world  and  its  discord :  thus  lies  Mon- 
seigneur,in  enchanted  dream.  Can  he,  even 
in  sleep,  forget  his  tutelary  Countess,  and 
her  service  ?  By  the  delicatest  presents  he 


4^  93  ^ 
alleviates  her  distresses,  most  undeserved. 
Nay,  once  or  twice,  gilt  Autographs,  from 
a  Queen,  —  with  whom  he  is  evidently  ris- 
ing to  unknown  heights  in  favour,  —  have 
done  Monseigneur  the  honour  to  make  him 
her  Majesty's  Grand  Almoner,  when  the 
case  was  pressing.  Monseigneur,  we  say,  has 
had  the  honour  to  disburse  charitable  cash, 
on  her  Majesty's  behalf,  to  this  or  the  other 
distressed  deserving  object:  say  only  to  the 
length  of  a  few  thousand  pounds,  advanced 
from  his  own  funds; — her  Majesty  being 
at  the  moment  so  poor,  and  charity  a  thing 
that  will  not  wait.  Always  Madame,  good, 
foolish,  gadding  creature,  takes  charge  of 
delivering  the  money.  —  Madame  can  de- 
scend from  her  attics,  in  the  Belle  Image; 
and  feel  the  smiles  of  Nature  and  Fortune, 
a  little ;  so  bounteous  has  the  Queen's 
Majesty  been. 

To  Monseigneurthe  power  of  money  over 
highest  female  hearts  had  never  been  in- 
credible. Presents  have,many  times,worked 


^  94  ^^ 
wonders.  But  then,  O  Heavens,  what  pres- 
ent? Scarcely  were  the  Cloud-Compeller 
himself,  all  coined  into  new  Louis-d*or, 
worthy  to  alight  in  such  a  lap.  Loans,  chari- 
table disbursements,  however,  as  we  see,  are 
permissible :  these,  by  defect  of  payment, 
may  become  presents.  In  the  vortex  of  his 
Eminence's  day-dreams,  lumbering  multi- 
form slowly  round,  this  of  importunate 
Boehmer  and  his  Necklace,  from  time  to 
time,  turns  up.  Is  the  Queen's  Majesty 
at  heart  desirous  of  it;  but  again,  at  the 
moment,  too  poor?  Our  tutelary  Countess 
answers  vaguely,  mysteriously; — confesses, 
at  last,  under  oath  of  secrecy,  her  own  private 
suspicion  that  the  Queen  wants  this  same 
Necklace,  of  all  things;  but  dare  not,  for  a 
stingy  husband,  buy  it.  She,  the  Countess 
de  Lamotte,  will  look  farther  into  the  mat- 
ter; and,  if  aught  serviceable  to  his  Emi- 
nence can  be  suggested,  in  a  good  way 
suggest  it,  in  the  proper  quarter. 

Walk  warily.  Countess  de  Lamotte;  for 


^  95  ^ 
now,  with  thickening  breath,  thou  approach- 
est  the  moment  of  moments!  Principalities 
and  Powers,  Parlementy  Grand  Chambre  and 
'Tournelle,  with  all  their  whips  and  gibbet- 
wheels  ;  the  very  Crack  of  Doom  hangs  over 
thee,  if  thou  trip.  Forward,  with  nerve  of 
iron,  on  shoes  of  felt ;  like  a  Treasure-digger, 
in  silence,  looking  neither  to  the  right  nor 
left, — where  yawn  abysses  deep  as  the  Pool, 
and  all  Pandemonium  hovers,  eager  to  rend 
thee  into  rags ! 


CHAPTER  IX 

PARK    OF    VERSAILLES 

R  will  the  reader  incline  rather,  tak- 
ing the  other  and  suliny  side  of  the 
matter,  to  enter  that  Lamottic  Circean  the- 
atrical establishment  of  Monseigneur  de 
Rohan  ;  and  see  there  how,  under  the  best 
of  Dramaturgists,  Melodrama  with  sweep- 
ing pall  flits  past  him ;  while  the  enchanted 
Diamond  fruit  is  gradually  ripening,  to  fall 
by  a  shake  ? 

The  28th  of  July,  of  this  same  moment- 
ous 1784,  has  come ;  and  with  it  the  most 
rapturous  tumult  into  the  heart  of  Mon- 
seigneur. Ineffable  expectancy  stirs-up  his 
whole  soul,  with  the  much  that  lies  therein, 
from  its  lowest  foundations :  borne  on  wild 
seas  to  Armida  Islands,  yet,  as  is  fit,  through 
Horror  dim-hovering  round,  he  tumultu- 
ously  rocks.  To  the  Chateau,  to  the  Park ! 


^  97  ^ 
This  night  the  Queen  will  meet  thee,  the 
Queen  herself:  so  far  has  our  tutelary- 
Countess  brought  it.  What  can  minister- 
ial impediments,  Polignac  intrigues,  avail 
against  the  favour,  nay  —  Heaven  and 
Earth  !  —  perhaps  the  tenderness  of  a 
Queen  ?  She  vanishes  from  amid  their 
meshwork  of  Etiquette  and  Cabal ;  de- 
scends from  her  celestial  Zodiac,  to  thee  a 
shepherd  of  Latmos.  Alas,  a  white-bearded 
pursy  shepherd,  fat  and  scant  of  breath  1 
Who  can  account  for  the  taste  of  females? 
But  thou,  burnish-up  thy  whole  faculties 
of  gallantry,  thy  fifty-years  experience  of 
the  sex;  this  night,  or  never!  —  In  such 
unutterable  meditations  does  Monseigneur 
restlessly  spend  the  day;  and  long  for  dark- 
ness, yet  dread  it. 

Darkness  has  at  length  come.  The  per- 
pendicular rows  of  Heyducs,  in  that  Palais 
or  Hotel  de  Strasbourg,  are  all  cast  hori- 
zontal, prostrate  in  sleep;  the  very  Con- 
cierge, resupine,  with  open  mouth,  audibly 


4^  98   4^ 

drinks-in  nepenthe;  when  Monseigneur, 
"in  blue  great-coat,  with  slouched  hat/' 
issues  softly,  with  his  henchman  Planta 
of  the  Grisons,  to  the  Park  of  Versailles. 
Planta  must  loiter  invisible  in  the  distance; 
Slouched-hat  will  wait  here,  among  the  leafy 
thickets;  till  our  tutelary  Countess,  "in 
black  domino,"  announce  the  moment, 
which  surely  must  be  near. 

The  night  is  of  the  darkest  for  the  sea- 
son; no  Moon;  warm,slumbering  July, in 
motionless  clouds,  drops  fatness  over  the 
Earth.  The  very  stars  from  the  Zenith  see 
not  Monseigneur;  see  only  his  and  the 
world's  cloud-covering,  fringed  with  twi- 
light in  the  far  North.  Midnight,  telling 
itself  forth  from  these  shadowy  Palace 
Domes  ?  All  the  steeples  of  Versailles,  the 
villages  around,  with  metal  tongue,  and 
huge  Paris  itself  dull-droning,  answer  drow- 
sily, Yes!  Sleep  rules  this  Hemisphere  of 
the  World.  From  Arctic  to  Antarctic,  the 
Life  of  our  Earth  lies  all,  in  long  swaths. 


4^   99   ^ 
or   rows   (like    those   rows    of  Heyducs 
and  snoring  Concierge),  successively  mown 
down,  from  vertical  to  horizontal,  by  Sleep ! 
Rather  curious  to  consider. 

The  flowers  are  all  asleep  in  Little  Tri- 
anon, the  roses  folded-in  for  the  night;  but 
the  Rose  of  Roses  still  wakes.  O  wondrous 
Earth  1  O  doubly  wondrous  Park  of  Ver- 
sailles, with  Little  and  Great  Trianon,  — 
and  a  scarce-breathing  Monseigneur !  Ye 
Hydraulics  of  Lenotre,  that  also  slumber, 
with  stop-cocks,  in  your  deep  leaden  cham- 
bers, babble  not  of  him,  when  ye  arise.  Ye 
odorous  balm-shrubs,  huge  spectral  Cedars, 
thou  sacred  Boscage  of  Hornbeam,  ye  dim 
Pavilions  of  the  Peerless,  whisper  not! 
Moon,  lie  silent,  hidden  in  thy  vacant 
cave ;  no  star  look  down :  let  neither  H  eaven 
nor  Hell  peep  through  the  blanket  of  the 
Night,  to  cry,  Hold,  Hold  !  — The  Black 
Domino  ?  Ha  1  Yes  !  —  With  stouter  step 
than  might  have  been  expected,  Monsei- 
gneur is  under  way ;  the  Black  Domino  had 


^     lOO    ^ 

only  to  whisper,  low  and  eager:  "In  the 
Hornbeam  Arbour !  "  And  now,  Cardinal, 
O  now  !  —  Yes,  there  hovers  the  white  Ce- 
lestial ;  "  in  white  robe  of  linonmouchet^" 
finer  than  moonshine  ;  a  Juno  by  her  bear- 
ing :  there,  in  that  bosket !  Monseigneur, 
down  on  thy  knees  ;  never  can  red  breeches 
.be  better  wasted.  Oh,  he  would  kiss  the 
royal  shoe-tie,  or  its  shadow  if  there  were 
one :  not  words ;  only  broken  gaspings, 
murmuring  prostrations,  eloquently  speak 
his  meaning.  But,  ah,  behold  !  Our  tute- 
lary Black  Domino,  in  haste,  with  vehe- 
ment whisper : "  On  vienty  The  white  Juno 
drops  a  fairest  Rose,  with  these  ever-me- 
morable words,  ^^Voussavez  ce  que  cela  veut 
dirCy  You  know  what  that  means";  van- 
ishes in  the  thickets,  the  Black  Domino 
hurrying  her  with  eager  whisper  of  "^/V^, 
vite^  Away,  away  ! "  for  the  sound  of  foot- 
steps (doubtless  from  Madame,  and  Ma- 
dame d'Artois,  unwelcome  sisters  that  they 
are!)  is  approaching   fast.    Monseigneur 


4^    loi   ^ 

picks  up  his  Rose ;  runs  as  for  the  King's 
plate,  almost  overturns  poor  Planta,  whose 
laugh  assures  him  that  all  is  safe. 

O  Ixion  de  Rohan,  happiest  mortal  of 
this  world,  since  the  first  Ixion,  of  death- 
less memory, —  who  nevertheless,  in  that 
cloud-embrace,  begat  strange  Centaurs ! 
Thou  art  Prime  Minister  of  France  with- 
out peradventure :  is  not  this  the  Rose  of 
Royalty,  worthy  to  become  ottar  of  roses, 
and  yield  perfume  forever?  How  tboUy  of 
all  people,  wilt  contrive  to  govern  France, 
in  these  very  peculiar  times —  But  that  is 
little  to  the  matter.  There,  doubtless,  is  thy 
Rose  (which,  methinks,  it  were  well  to  have 
a  Box  or  Casket  made  for) :  nay,  was  there 
not  in  the  dulcet  ofthy  Juno's  "/^o«jj^i;^2" 
a  kind  of  trepidation,  a  quaver,  —  as  of  still 
deeper  meanings  ! 

Reader,  there  is  hitherto  no  item  of  this 
miracle  that  is  not  historically  proved  and 
true.  —  In  distracted  black-magical  phan- 


^     I02     <§► 

tasmagory,  adumbrations  of  yet  higher  and 
highest  Dalliances  hover  stupendous  in  the 
background :  whereof  your  Georgels,  and 
Campans,  and  other  official  characters  can 
take  no  notice  !  There,  in  distracted  black- 
magical  phantasmagory,  let  these  hover. 
The  truth  of  them  for  us  is  that  they  do  so 
hover.  The  truth  of  them  in  itself  is  known 
only  to  three  persons:  Dame  self-styled 
Countess  de  Lamotte  ;  the  Devil ;  and 
Philippe  Egalite,  —  who  furnished  money 
and  facts  for  the  Lamotte" Memoirs/'  and, 
before  guillotinement,  begat  the  present 
King  of  the  French. 

Enough  that  Ixion  de  Rohan,  lapsed  al- 
most into  deliquium,  by  such  sober  cer- 
tainty of  waking  bliss,  is  the  happiest  of 
all  men;  and  his  tutelary  Countess  the 
dearest  of  all  women,  save  one  only.  On 
the  25th  of  August  (so  strong  still  are 
those  villainous  Drawing-room  cabals)  he 
goes,  weeping,  but  submissive,  by  order  of 
a  gilt  Autograph,  home  to  Saverne ;  till 


4lr       I03      ^ 

farther  dignities  can  be  matured  for  him. 
He  carries  his  Rose,  now  considerably 
faded,  in  a  Casket  of  fit  price ;  may,  if  he 
so  please,  perpetuate  it  as  potpourri.  He 
names  a  favourite  walk  in  his  Archiepisco- 
pal  pleasure-grounds.  Promenade  de  la  Rose; 
there  let  him  court  digestion,  and  loyally 
somnambulate  till  called  for. 

I  noticed  it  as  a  coincidence  in  chrono- 
logy, that,  few  days  after  this  date,  the 
Demoiselle  (or  even,  for  the  last  month. 
Baroness)  Gay  d'Oliva  began  to  find  Count- 
ess de  Lamotte  "  not  at  home,"  in  her  fine 
Paris  hotel,  in  her  fine  Charonne  country- 
house;  and  went  no  more,  with  Villette, 
and  such  pleasant  dinner-guests,  and  her,  to 
see  Beaumarchais'  "Manage  de  Figaro" 
running  its  hundred  nights. 


CHAPTER  X 

BEHIND    THE    SCENES 

THE  Queen?"  Good  reader,  thou 
surely  art  not  a  Partridge  the  School- 
master or  a  Monseigneur  de  Rohan,  to 
mistake  the  stage  for  a  reality  !  —  "  But 
who  this  Demoiselle  d'Oliva  was  ? "  Reader, 
let  us  remark  rather  how  the  labours  of 
our  Dramaturgic  Countess  are  increasing. 
New  actors  I  see  on  the  scene;  not  one 
of  whom  shall  guess  what  the  other  is  do- 
ing ;  or,  indeed,  know  rightly  what  himself 
Is  doing.  For  example,  cannot  Messieurs 
de  Lamotte  and  Villette,  of  Rascaldom, 
like  Nisus  and  Euryalus,  take  a  midnight 
walk  of  contemplation,  with  "footsteps  of 
Madame  and  Madame  d'Artois  "  (since  all 
footsteps  are  much  the  same),  without  of- 
fence to  any  one?  A  Queen's  Similitude 
can  believe  that  a  Queen's  Self,  for  frolic's 


^  los  ^ 
sake,  is  looking  at  her  through  the  thickets ; 
a  terrestrial  Cardinal  can  kiss  with  devo- 
tion a  celestial  Queen's  slipper,  or  Queen's 
Similitude's  slipper,  —  and  no  one  but  a 
Black  Domino  the  wiser.  All  these  shall 
follow  each  his  precalculated  course ;  for 
their  inward  mechanism  is  known,  and  fit 
wires  hook  themselves  on  this.  To  two 
only  is  a  clear  belief  vouchsafed :  to  Mon- 
seigneur,  a  clear  belief  founded  on  stu- 
pidity :  to  the  great  creative  Dramaturgist, 
sitting  at  the  heart  of  the  whole  mystery,  a 
clear  belief  founded  on  completest  insight. 
Great  creative  Dramaturgist!  How,  like 
Schiller, "  by  union  of  the  Possible  with  the 
Necessarily  existing,  she  brings  out  the" 
—  Eighty  thousand  Pounds !  Don  Aranda, 
with  his  triple-sealed  missives  and  hood- 
winked secretaries,  bragged  justly  that  he 
cut  down  the  Jesuits  in  one  day  :  but  here, 
without  ministerial  salary,  or  King's  favour, 
or  any  help  beyond  her  own  black  dom- 
ino, labours  a  greater  than  he.  How  she 


^  io6  ^ 

advances,  stealthily,  steadfastly,  with  Argus 
eye  and  ever-ready  brain ;  with  nerve  of 
iron,  on  shoes  of  felt!  O  worthy  to  have 
intrigued  for  Jesuitdom,  for  Pope's  Tiara; 
—  to  have  been  Pope  Joan  thyself,  in 
those  old  days;  and  as  Arachne  of  Arach- 
nes,  sat  in  the  centre  of  that  stupendous 
spider-web,  which,  reaching  from  Goa  to 
Acapulco,  and  from  Heaven  to  Hell,  over- 
netted  the  thoughts  and  souls  of  men !  — 
Of  which  spider-web  stray  tatters,  in  fa- 
vourable dewy  mornings,  even  yet  become 
visible. 

The  Demoiselle  d*01iva?  She  is  a  Pa- 
risian Demoiselle  of  three-and-twenty,  tall, 
blonde,  and  beautiful;  from  unjust  guardi- 
ans, and  an  evil  world,  she  has  had  some- 
what to  suffer. 

"  In  this  month  of  June,  1784,"  says  the 
Demoiselle  herself,  in  her  (judicial)  Auto- 
biography, "  I  occupied  a  small  apartment 
in  the  Rue  du  Jour,  Quartier  Saint-Eu- 
stache.  I  was  not  far  from  the  Garden  of 


4^  loy  ^ 
the  Palais- Royal ;  I  had  made  it  my  usual 
promenade."  For,  indeed,  the  real  God*s- 
truth  is,  I  was  a  Parisian  unfortunate- 
female,  with  moderate  custom ;  and  one 
must  go  where  his  market  lies.  "I  fre- 
quently passed  three  or  four  hours  of  the 
afternoon  there,  with  some  women  of  my 
acquaintance,  and  a  little  child  of  four  years 
old,  whom  I  was  fond  of,  whom  his  parents 
willingly  trusted  with  me.  I  even  went 
thither  alone,  except  for  him,  when  other 
company  failed. 

"  One  afternoon,  in  the  month  of  July 
following,  I  was  at  the  Palais-Royal :  my 
whole  company,  at  the  moment,  was  the 
child  I  speak  of.  A  tall  young  man,  walk- 
ing alone,  passes  several  times  before  me. 
He  was  a  man  I  had  never  seen.  He  looks 
at  me ;  he  looks  fixedly  at  me.  I  observe 
even  that  always,  as  he  comes  near,  he 
slackens  his  pace,  as  if  to  survey  me  more  at 
leisure.  A  chair  stood  vacant ;  two  or  three 
feet  from  mine.  He  seats  himself  there. 


^   io8   *§► 

"  Till  this  instant,  the  sight  of  the  young 
man,  his  walks,  his  approaches,  his  repeated 
gazings,  had  made  no  impression  on  me. 
But  now,  when  he  was  sitting  so  close  by, 
I  could  not  avoid  noticing  him.  His  eyes 
ceased  not  to  wander  over  all  my  person. 
His  air  becomes  earnest,  grave.  An  un- 
quiet curiosity  appears  to  agitate  him.  He 
seems  to  measure  my  figure,  to  seize  by 
turns  all  parts  of  my  physiognomy.  —  He 
finds  me  (but  whispers  not  a  syllable  of  it) 
tolerably  like,  both  in  person  and  profile; 
for  even  the  Abbe  Georgel  says,  I  was  a 
hlle  courtisane, 

"  It  is  time  to  name  this  young  man  :  he 
was  the  Sieur  de  Lamotte,  styling  himself 
Comte  de  Lamotte.  Who  doubts  it  ?  He 
praises  *  my  feeble  charms ' ;  expresses  a 
wish  to  *  pay  his  addresses  to  me.'  I,  being 
a  lone  spinster,  know  not  what  to  say ; 
think  it  best  in  the  mean  while  to  retire. 
Vain  precaution  !  I  see  him  all  on  a  sud- 
den appear  in  my  apartment !  " 


I 


^  109  ^ 

On  his  "  ninth  visit  "  (for  he  was  always 
civility  itself),  he  talks  of  introducing  a 
great  Court-lady,  by  whose  means  I  may 
even  do  her  Majesty  some  little  secret- 
service, —  the  reward  of  which  will  be 
unspeakable.  In  the  dusk  of  the  evening, 
silks  mysteriously  rustle :  enter  the  creative 
Dramaturgist,  Dame  styled  Countess  de 
Lamotte  ;  and  so  —  the  too  intrusive  sci- 
entific reader  has  now,  for  his  punishment, 
go^  on  the  wrong-side  of  that  loveliest 
Transparency;  finds  nothing  but  grease- 
pots,  and  vapour  of  expiring  wicks  ! 

The  Demoiselle  Gay  d*01iva  may  once 
more  sit,  or  stand,  in  the  Palais-Royal,  with 
such  custom  as  will  come.  In  due  time,  she 
shall  again,  but  with  breath  of  Terror,  be 
blown  upon ;  and  blown  out  of  France  to 
Brussels. 


7 


CHAPTER   XI 

THE    NECKLACE    IS    SOLD 

AUTUMNjwithitsgreymoaningwinds 
«  and  coating  of  red  strewn  leaves, 
invites  Courtiers  to  enjoy  the  charms  of 
Nature;  and  all  business  of  moment  stands 
still.  Countess  de  Lamotte, while  everything 
is  so  stagnant,  and  even  Boehmer  has  locked 
up  his  Necklace  and  his  hopes  for  the  sea- 
son, can  drive,  with  her  Count  and  Eury- 
alus  Villette,  down  to  native  Bar-sur-Aube ; 
and  there  (in  virtue  of  a  Queen's  bounty) 
show  the  envious  a  Scion-of-Royalty  re- 
grafted ;  and  made  them  yellower  looking 
on  it.  A  well-varnished  chariot,  with  the 
Arms  of  Valois  duly  painted  in  bend-sin- 
ister; a  house  gallantly  furnished,  bodies 
gallantly  attired, — secure  them  the  favour- 
ablest  reception  from  all  manner  of  men. 
The  very  Due  de   Penthievre  (Egalite*s 


4^     II  I     ii§^ 

father-in-law)  welcomes  our  Lamotte,  with 
that  urbanity  characteristic  of  his  high  sta- 
tion and  the  old  school.  Worth,  indeed, 
makes  the  man,  or  woman;  but  "leather" 
of  gig-straps,  and  "  prunella  "  of  gig-lining, 
first  makes  it  go. 

The  great  creative  Dramaturgist  has  thus 
let  down  her  drop-scene  ;  and  only,  with  a 
Letter  or  two  to  Saverne,  or  even  a  visit 
thither  (for  it  is  but  a  day's  drive  from  Bar), 
keeps  up  a  due  modicum  of  intermediate 
instrumental  music.  She  needs  some  pause, 
in  good  sooth,  to  collect  herself  a  little;  for 
the  last  act  and  grand  Catastrophe  is  at  hand. 
Two  fixed-ideas.  Cardinal's  and  Jeweller's, 
a  negative  and  a  positive,  have  felt  each 
other;  stimulated  now  by  new  hope,  are 
rapidly  revolving  round  each  other,  and 
approximating ;  like  two  flames,  are  stretch- 
ing-out long  fire-tongues  to  join  and  be  one. 

Boehmer,  on  his  side,  is  ready  with  the 
readiest ;  as,  indeed,  he  has  been  these  four 


-4^  I  12  4^ 
long  years.  The  Countess,  it  is  true,  will 
have  neither  part  nor  lot  in  that  foolish  Ca- 
deau  of  his,  or  in  the  whole  foolish  Neck- 
lace business :  this  she  has,  in  plain  words, 
and  even  not  without  asperity,  due  to  a  bore 
of  such  magnitude,  given  him  to  know. 
From  her,  nevertheless,  by  cunning  infer- 
ence, and  the  merest  accident  in  the  world, 
the  sly  Joaillier-Bijoutier  has  gleaned  thus 
much,  that  Monseigneur  de  Rohan  is  the 
man.  —  Enough!  Enough!  Madame  shall 
be  no  more  troubled.  Rest  there,  in  hope, 
thou  Necklace  of  the  Devil;  but,  O  Mon- 
seigneur, be  thy  return  speedy  ! 

Alas,  the  man  lives  not  that  would  be 
speedier  than  Monseigneur,  if  hedurst.  But 
as  yet  no  gilt  Autograph  invites  him,  per- 
mits him;  the  few  gilt  Autographs  are  all 
negatory,  procrastinating.  Cabals  of  Court ; 
forever  cabals  !  Nay,  if  it  be  not  for  some 
Necklace,  or  other  such  crotchet  or  neces- 
sity, who  knows  but  he  may  never  be  recalled 
(so  fickle  is  womankind);  but  forgotten. 


^  113  4^ 
and  left  to  rot  here,  like  his  Rose,  into 
potpourri  ?  Our  tutelary  Countess,  too,  is 
shyer  in  this  matter  than  we  ever  saw  her. 
Nevertheless,  by  intense  skilful  cross-ques- 
tioning, he  has  extorted  somewhat;  sees 
partly  how  it  stands.  The  Queen's  Majesty 
will  have  her  Necklace ;  for  when,  in  such 
case,  had  not  woman  herway  ?  The  Queen's 
Majesty  can  even  pay  for  it  —  by  instal- 
ments ;  but  then  the  stingy  husband!  Once 
for  all,  she  will  not  be  seen  in  the  business. 
Now,  therefore,  were  it,  or  were  it  not,  per- 
missible to  mortal  to  transact  it  secretly 
in  her  stead  ?  That  is  the  question.  If  to 
mortal,  then  to  Monseigneur.  Our  Count- 
ess has  even  ventured  to  hint  afar  off  at 
Monseigneur  (kind  Countess!)  in  the 
proper  quarter;  but  his  discretion  in  regard 
to  money-matters  is  doubted.  Discretion  ? 
And  I  on  the  Promenade  de  la  Rose?  —  Ex- 
plode not,  O  Eminence  !  Trust  will  spring 
of  trial ;  thy  hour  is  coming. 


^  114  ^ 

The  Lamottes  meanwhile  have  left  their 
farewell  card  with  all  the  respectable  classes 
of  Bar-sur-Aube  ;  our  Dramaturgist  stands 
again  behind  the  scenes  at  Paris.  How  is 
itj  O  Monseigneur,  that  she  is  still  so  shy 
with  thee,  in  this  matter  of  the  Necklace ; 
that  she  leaves  the  love-lorn  Latmian  shep- 
herd to  droop,  here  in  lone  Saverne,  like 
weeping-ash,  in  naked  winter,  on  his  Prom- 
enade of  the  Rose,  with  vague  commonplace 
responses  that  his  hour  is  coming?  —  By 
Heaven  and  Earth  !  at  last,  in  late  January, 
it  is  come.  Behold  it,  this  new  gilt  Auto- 
graph :  "  To  Paris,  on  a  small  business 
of  delicacy,  which  our  Countess  will  ex- 
plain,"—  which  I  already  know!  To  Paris  ! 
Horses ;  postilions ;  beef-eaters !  —  And  so 
his  resuscitated  Eminence,  all  wrapt  in  furs, 
in  the  pleasantest  frost  (Abbe  Georgel  says, 
un  beau  f void  de  Janvier)^  over  clear-jing- 
ling highway  rolls  rapidly, — borne  on  the 
bosom  of  Dreams. 

O  Dame  de  Lamotte,  has  the  enchanted 


4^  115  ^ 
Diamond  fruit  ripened,  then  ?  Hast  thou 
given  it  the  little  shake,  big  with  unutter- 
able fate  ?  —  I  ?  can  the  Dame  justly  retort : 
Who  saw  me  in  it?  —  The  reader,  there- 
fore, has  still  Three  scenic  Exhibitions  to 
lookat,  by  our  great  Dramaturgist;  then  the 
Fourth  and  last,  —  by  another  Author. 

To  us,  reflecting  how  oftenest  the  true 
moving  force  in  human  things  works  hid- 
den underground,  it  seems  small  marvel 
that  this  month  of  January,  1785,  wherein 
our  Countess  so  little  courts  the  eye  of  the 
vulgar  historian,  should  nevertheless  have 
been  the  busiest  of  all  for  her ;  especially 
the  latter  half  thereof. 

Wisely  eschewing  matters  of  Business 
(which  she  could  never  in  her  life  under- 
stand), our  Countess  will  personally  take  no 
charge  of  that  bargain-making ;  leaves  it  all 
to  her  Majesty  and  the  gilt  Autographs. 
Assiduous  Boehmer  nevertheless  is  in  fre- 
quent close  conference  with  Monseigneur: 


4^    ii6  ^ 

the  Paris  Palais-de-Strasbourg,  shut  to  the 
rest  of  men,  sees  the  Joaillier-Bijoutier, 
with  eager  official  aspect,  come  andgo.  The 
grand  difficulty  is  —  must  we  say  it  ?  —  her 
Majesty's  wilful  whimsicality,  unacquaint- 
ance  with  Business.  She  positively  will  not 
write  a  gilt  Autograph,  authorising  his  Em- 
inence to  make  the  bargain ;  but  writes 
rather,  in  a  pettish  manner,  that  the  thing 
is  of  no  consequence,  and  can  be  given  up  ! 
Thus  must  the  poor  Countess  dash  to  and 
fro,  like  a  weaver's  shuttle,  between  Paris 
and  Versailles ;  wear  her  horses  and  nerves 
to  pieces ;  nay,  sometimes  in  the  hottest 
haste,  wait  many  hours  within  call  of  the 
Palace,  considering  what  can  be  done  (with 
none  but  Villette  to  bear  her  company),  — 
till  the  Queen's  whim  pass. 

At  length,  after  furious-driving  and  con- 
ferences enough,  on  the  29th  of  January, 
a  middle  course  is  hit  on.  Cautious  Boeh- 
mer  shall  write  out,  on  finest  paper,  his 
terms ;  which  are  really  rather  fair :  Sixteen 


^  117  ^ 

hundred  thousand  livres;  to  be  paid  in  five 
equal  instalments ;  the  first  this  day  six 
months  ;  the  other  four  from  three  months 
to  three  months  ;  this  is  what  Court-Jewel- 
lers Boehmer  and  Bassange,  on  the  one  part, 
and  Prince  Cardinal  Commendator  Louis 
de  Rohan,  on  the  other  part,  will  stand  to ; 
witness  their  hands.  Which  written  sheet 
of  finest  paper  our  poor  Countess  must 
again  take  charge  of,  again  dash-off  with  to 
Versailles ;  and  therefrom,  after  trouble 
unspeakable  (shared  in  only  by  the  faithful 
Villette,  of  Rascaldom),  return  with  it,  bear- 
ing this  most  precious  marginal  note, "  Bon 
—  Marie-Antoinette  de  France^''  in  the  Au- 
tograph-hand !  Happy  Cardinal !  this  thou 
shalt  keep  in  the  innermost  of  all  thy  re- 
positories. Boehmer,  meanwhile,  secret  as 
Death,  shall  tell  no  man  that  he  has  sold  his 
Necklace ;  or  if  much  pressed  for  an  actual 
sight  of  the  same,  confess  that  it  is  sold  to 
the  Favourite  Sultana  of  the  Grand  Turk 
for  the  time  being. 


4^   ii8   ^ 

Thus,  then,  do  the  smoking  Lamotte 
horses  at  length  get  rubbed  down,  and  feel 
the  taste  of  oats,  after  midnight ;  the  La- 
motte Countess  can  also  gradually  sink  into 
needful  slumber,  perhaps  not  unbroken  by- 
dreams.  On  the  morrow  the  bargain  shall 
be  concluded ;  next  day  the  Necklace  be 
delivered,  on  Monseigneur's  receipt. 

Will  the  reader,  therefore,  be  pleased  to 
glance  at  the  following  two  Life- Pictures, 
Real-Phantasmagories,  or  whatever  we 
may  call  them ;  they  are  the  two  first  of 
those  Three  scenic  real-poetic  exhibitions, 
brought  about  by  our  Dramaturgist :  short 
Exhibitions,  but  essential  ones. 


CHAPTER   XII 

THE    NECKLACE    VANISHES 

IT  is  the  1st  day  of  February  ;  that  grand 
day  of  Delivery.  The  Sieur  Boehmer  is 
in  the  Court  of  the  Palais  de  Strasbourg ; 
his  look  mysterious-official,  and  though 
much  emaciated,  radiant  with  enthusiasm. 
The  Seine  has  missed  him  ;  though  lean, 
he  will  fatten  again,  and  live  through  new 
enterprises. 

Singular,  were  we  not  used  to  it :  the 
name  "  Boehmer,"  as  it  passes  upwards  and 
inwards,  lowers  all  halberts  of  Heyducs 
in  perpendicular  rows:  the  historical  eye 
beholds  him,  bowing  low,  with  plenteous 
smiles,  in  the  plush  Saloon  of  Audience. 
Will  it  please  Monseigneur,  then,  to  do  the 
ne-p lus-ullr a  of  NeckhcGS  the  honour  of 
looking  at  it?  A  piece  of  Art,  which  the 
Universe  cannot  parallel,  shall  be  parted 


-^    I120    ^^ 

with  (Necessity  compels  Court-Jewellers) 
at  that  ruinously  low  sum.  They,  the 
Court-Jewellers,  shall  have  much  ado  to 
weather  it ;  but  their  work,  at  least,  will 
find  a  fit  Wearer,  and  go  down  to  juster 
posterity.  Monseigneur  will  merely  have 
the  condescension  to  sign  this  Receipt  of 
Delivery:  all  the  rest,  her  Highness  the  Sul- 
tana of  the  Sublime  Porte  has  settled  it.  — 
Here  the  Court-Jeweller,  with  his  joyous 
though  now  much-emaciated  face,  ventures 
on  a  faint  knowing  smile  ;  to  which,  in  the 
lofty  dissolute-serene  of  Monseigneur's, 
some  twinkle  of  permission  could  not  but 
respond.  —  This  is  the  First  of  those  Three 
real-poetic  Exhibitions,  brought  about  by 
our  Dramaturgist,  —  with  perfect  success. 
It  was  said,  long  afterwards,  that  Mon- 
seigneur should  have  known,  and  even  that 
Boehmer  should  haveknown,  her  Highness 
the  Sultana's  marginal  note,  her  ^^  Right  — 
Marie- Antoinette  of  France^^  to  be  a  forg- 
ery and  mockery :  the  "  of  France  "  was  fatal 


^     121     ^§^ 

to  It.  Easy  talking,  easy  criticising  !  But 
how  are  two  enchanted  men  to  know ;  two 
men  with  a  fixed-idea  each,  a  negative  and  a 
positive,  rushing  together  to  neutralize  each 
other  in  rapture? — Enough,  Monseigneur 
has  the  ne-plus-ultra  of  Necklaces,  con- 
quered by  man's  valour  and  woman's  wit; 
and  rolls  off  with  it,  in  mysterious  speed, 
to  Versailles,  —  triumphant  as  a  Jason  with 
his  Golden  Fleece. 

The  Second  grand  scenic  Exhibition  by 
our  Dramaturgic  Countess  occurs  In  her 
own  apartment  at  Versailles,  so  early  as 
the  following  night.  It  Is  a  commodious 
apartment,  with  alcove ;  and  the  alcove  has 
a  glass  door.  Monseigneur  enters, — with  a 
follower  bearing  a  mysterious  Casket,  who 
carefully  deposits  it,  and  then  respectfully 
withdraws.  It  is  the  Necklace  Itself  in  all 
its  glory !  Our  tutelary  Countess,and  Mon- 
seigneur, and  we,  can  at  leisure  admire  the 
queenly  Talisman;  congratulate  ourselves 
that  the  painful  conquest  of  it  is  achieved. 


^   111  ^ 

But,  hist !  A  knock,  mild  but  decisive,  as 
from  one  knocking  with  authority !  Mon- 
seigneur  and  we  retire  to  our  alcove ;  there 
from  behind  our  glass  screen,  observe  what 
passes.  Who  comes  ?  The  door  flung  open: 
depar  la  Reine  !  Behold  him,  Monseigneur : 
he  enters  with  grave,  respectful,  yet  official 
air;  worthy  Monsieur  Queen's-valet  Les- 
claux,  the  same  who  escorted  our  tutelary 
Countess,  that  moonlight  night,  from  the 
back  apartments  of  Versailles.  Said  we  not, 
thou  wouldst  see  him  once  more?  —  Me- 
thinks,  again,  spite  of  his  Queen*s-uniform, 
he  has  much  the  features  of  Villette  of  Ras- 
caldom !  —  Rascaldom  or  Valetdom  (for  to 
the  blind  all  colours  are  the  same),  he  has, 
with  his  grave,  respectful,  yet  official  air, 
received  the  Casket,  and  its  priceless  con- 
tents; with  fit  injunction,  with  fit  engage- 
ments; and  retires  bowing  low. 

Thus  softly,  silently,  like  a  very  Dream, 
flits  away  our  solid  Necklace — through  the 
Horn  Gate  of  Dreams  I 


CHAPTER   XIII 

SCENE    THIRD  :    BY    DAME    DE    LAMOTTE 

NOW,  too,  in  these  same  days  (as  he 
can  afterwards  prove  by  affidavit  of 
Landlords)  arrives  Count  Cagliostro  him- 
self, from  Lyons  !  No  longer  by  predictions 
in  cipher;  but  by  his  living  voice,  often  in 
rapt  communion  with  the  unseen  world, 
"with  Caraffe  and  four  candles'*;  by  his 
greasy  prophetic  bull-dog  face,  said  to  be 
the  "most  perfect  quack-face  of  the  eight- 
eenth century,"  can  we  assure  ourselves 
that  all  is  well ;  that  all  will  turn  "  to  the 
glory  of  Monseigneur,  to  the  good  of 
France,  and  of  mankind,"  and  of  Egyptian 
Masonry.  "  Tokay  flows  like  water"  ;  our 
charming  Countess,  with  her  piquancy  of 
face,  is  sprightlier  than  ever;  enlivens  with 
the  brightest  sallies,  with  the  adroitest  flat- 
teries to  all,  those  suppers  of  the  gods.  O 


^  124  ^ 

Nights,  O  Suppers  —  too  good  to  last! 
Nay,  now  also  occurs  another  and  Third 
scenic  Exhibition,  fitted  by  its  radiance  to 
dispel  from  Monseigneur*s  soul  the  last 
trace  of  care. 

Why  the  Queen  does  not,  even  yet, 
openly  receive  me  at  Court?  Patience, 
Monseigneur!  Thou  little  knowest  those 
too  intricate  cabals;  and  how  she  still  but 
works  at  them  silently,  with  royal  suppress- 
ed fury,  like  a  royal  lioness  only  delivering 
herself  from  the  hunter's  toils.  Mean- 
while, is  not  thy  work  done?  The  Neck- 
lace, she  rejoices  over  it;  beholds,  many 
times  in  secret,  her  Juno-neck  mirrored 
back  the  lovelier  for  it,  —  as  our  tutelar 
Countess  can  testify.  Come  to-morrow  to 
the  CEil-de-Bceuf ;  there  see  with  eyes,  in 
high  noon,  as  already  in  deep  midnight 
thou  hast  seen,  whether  in  her  royal  heart 
there  were  delay. 

Let  us  stand,  then,  with  Monseigneur, 
in  that  (Eil-de-Boeuf;  in  the  Versailles  Pal- 


^  125  ^ 

ace  Gallery;  for  all  well-dressed  persons  are 
admitted :  there  the  Loveliest,  in  pomp  of 
royalty,  will  walk  to  mass.  The  world  is  all 
in  pelisses  and  winter  furs ;  cheerful,  clear, — 
with  noses  tending  to  blue.  A  lively,  many- 
voiced  hum  plays  fitful,  hither  and  thither: 
of  sledge  parties  and  Court  parties ;  frosty 
state  of  the  weather;  stability  of  M.  de  Ca- 
lonne;  Majesty's  looks  yesterday;  —  such 
hum  as  always,  in  these  sacred  Court-spaces, 
since  Louis  le  Grand  made  and  consecrated 
them,  has,  with  more  or  less  impetuosity, 
agitated  our  common  Atmosphere. 

Ah,  through  that  long  high  Gallery  what 
Figures  have  passed — and  vanished !  Lou- 
vois,  —  with  the  Great  King,  flashing  fire- 
glances  on  the  fugitive;  in  his  red  right 
hand  a  pair  of  tongs,  which  pious  Main- 
tenon  hardly  holds  back !  Louvois,  where 
art  thou?  Ye  Marechaux  de  France?  Ye 
unmentionable-women  of  past  generations  ? 
Here  also  was  it  that  rolled  and  rushed 
the  "sound,  absolutely  like  thunder,"  of 


^  126  ^ 
Courtier  hosts ;  in  that  dark  hour  when  the 
signal-light  in  Louis  the  Fifteenth's  cham- 
ber-window was  blown  out;  and  his  ghastly 
infectious  Corpse  lay  alone,  forsaken  on  its 
tumbled  death-lair,  "in  the  hands  of  some 
poor  women " ;  and  the  Courtier-hosts 
rushed  from  the  Deep-fallen  to  hail  the 
New-risen !  These  too  rushed,  and  passed ; 
and  their  "sound, absolutely  like  thunder," 
became  silence.  Figures?  Men?  They  are 
fast-fleeting  Shadows;  fast  chasing  each 
other :  it  is  not  a  Palace,  but  a  Caravansera. 
—  Monseigneur(with  thy  too  much  Tokay 
overnight)!  cease  puzzling:  here  tbou  art, 
this  blessed  February  day: — the  Peerless, 
will  she  turn  lightly  that  high  head  of  hers, 
and  glance  aside  into  the  CEil-de-Bceufy  in 
passing?  Please  Heaven,  she  will.  To  our 
tutelary  Countess,  at  least,  she  promised  it; 
though,  alas,  so  fickle  is  womankind!  — 

Hark!  Clang  of  opening  doors!  She 
issues,  like  the  Moon  in  silver  brightness, 
down  the  Eastern  steeps.  La  Reine  vienti 


4t     127    ^ 

What  a  figure !  I  (with  the  aid  of  glasses) 
discern  her,  O  Fairest,  Peerless!  Let  the 
humofminor  discoursing  hush  itself  wholly; 
and  only  one  successive  rolling  peal  oiVive 
la  Reine^  like  the  movable  radiance  of  a  train 
of  fireworks,  irradiate  her  path. — Ye  Im- 
mortals! She  does,  she  beckons,  turns  her 
head  this  way!  —  "Does  she  not?"  says 
Countess  de  Lamotte. — Versailles,  the  CEil- 
de-Bceuf^  and  all  men  and  things  are  drowned 
in  a  Sea  of  Light;  Monseigneur  and  that 
high  beckoning  Head  are  alone,  with  each 
other  in  the  Universe. 

O  Eminence,  what  a  beatific  vision !  En- 
joy it,  blest  as  the  gods;  ruminate  and  re- 
enjoy  it,with  full  soul :  it  is  the  last  provided 
for  thee.  Too  soon,  in  the  course  of  these 
six  months,  shall  thy  beatific  vision,  like 
Mirza's  vision,  gradually  melt  away;  and 
only  oxen  and  sheep  be  grazing  in  its  place ; 
— and  thou,  as  a  doomed  Nebuchadnezzar, 
be  grazing  with  them. 


4^   128   ^ 

"Does  she  not?"  said  the  Countess  de 

Lamotte.  That  it  is  a  habit  of  hers;  that 

hardly  a  day  passes  without  her  doing  it: 

this  the  Countess  de  Lamotte  did  not  say. 


CHAPTER   XIV 

THE    NECKLACE    CANNOT    BE    PAID 

HERE,  then,  the  specially  Dramaturgic 
labors  of  Countess  de  Lamotte  may 
be  said  to  terminate.  The  rest  of  her  life  is 
Histrionic  merely,  or  Histrionic  and  Crit- 
ical ;  as,  indeed,  what  had  all  the  former  part 
of  it  been  but  a  Hypocrisiay  a  more  or  less 
correct  Playing  of  Parts  ?  O  "  Mrs.  Facing- 
both-ways  "  (as  old  Bunyan  said),  what  a 
talent  hadst  thou !  No  Proteus  ever  took 
so  many  shapes,  no  Chameleon  so  often 
changed  color.  One  thing  thou  wert  to 
Monseigneur ;  another  thing  to  Cagliostro, 
and  Villette  of  Rascaldom  ;  a  third  thing 
to  the  World,  in  printed  "Memoires" ;  a 
fourth  thing  to  Philippe  Egalite:  all  things 
to  all  men  ! 

Let  her,  however,  we  say,  but  manage 
now  to  act  her  own  parts,  with  proper  His- 


^  130  ^ 

trionic  illusion;  and,  by  Critical  glosses, 
give  her  past  Dramaturgy  the  fit  aspect,  to 
Monseigneur  and  others :  this  henceforth, 
and  not  new  Dramaturgy,includes  herwhole 
task.  Dramatic  Scenes,  in  plenty,  will  fol- 
low of  themselves;  especially  that  Fourth 
and  final  Scene,  spoken  of  above  as  by  an- 
other Author,  —  by  Destiny  itself. 

For  in  the  Lamotte  Theatre,  so  different 
from  our  common  Pasteboard  one,  the  Play 
goes  on,  even  when  the  Machinist  has  left 
it.  Strange  enough:  those  Air-images,  which 
from  her  Magic-lantern  she  hung  out  on  the 
empty  bosom  of  Night,  have  clutched  hold 
of  this  solid-seeming  World  (which  some 
call  the  Material  World,  as  if  that  made  it 
more  a  Real  one),  and  will  tumble  hither 
and  thither  the  solidest  masses  there.  Yes, 
reader,  so  goes  it  here  below.  What  thou 
callestaBrain-web,ormereillusiveNothing, 
is  it  not  a  web  of  the  Brain ;  of  the  Spirit 
which  inhabits  the  Brain ;  and  which,  in  this 
World  (rather,  as  I  think,  to  be  named  the 


Spiritual  one),  very  naturally  moves  and 
tumbles  hither  and  thither  all  things  it  meets 
with,  in  Heaven  or  in  Earth  P  —  So,  too,  the 
Necklace,  though  we  saw  it  vanish  through 
the  Horn  Gate  of  Dreams,  and  in  my 
opinion  man  shall  never  more  behold  it, — 
yet  its  activity  ceases  not,  nor  will.  For  no 
Act  of  a  man,  no  Thing  (how  much  less  the 
man  himself!)  is  extinguished  when  //  dis- 
appears :  through  considerable  times  it  still 
visibly  works,  though  done  and  vanished; 
I  have  known  a  done  thing  work  visibly 
Three  Thousand  Years  and  more:  invisi- 
bly, unrecognised,  all  done  things  work 
through  endless  times  and  years.  Such  a 
Hypermagical  is  this  our  poor  old  Real 
world ;  which  some  take  upon  them  to  pro- 
nounce effete,  prosaic!  Friend,  it  is  thyself 
that  art  all  withered  up  into  effete  Prose, 
dead  as  ashes :  know  this  (I  advise  thee) ; 
and  seek  passionately,  with  a  passion  little 
short  of  desperation,  to  have  it  remedied. 
Meanwhile,  what  will  the  feeling  heart 


4^   132   ^l- 

think  to  learn  that  Monseigneur  de  Rohan, 
as  we  prophesied,  again  experiences  the  fick- 
leness of  a  Court;  that,  notwithstanding 
the  beatific  visions,  at  noon  and  midnight, 
the  Queen*s  Majesty,  with  the  light  ingrati- 
tude of  her  sex,  flies  off  at  a  tangent;  and, 
far  from  ousting  his  detested  and  detesting 
rival.  Minister  Breteuil, and  openly  delight- 
ing to  honour  Monseigneur,  will  hardly 
vouchsafe  him  a  few  gilt  Autographs,  and 
those  few  of  the  most  capricious,  suspicious, 
soul-confusing  tenor  ?  What  terrifico-absurd 
explosions,  which  scarcely  Cagliostro,with 
Caraife  and  four  candles,  can  still;  how 
many  deep-weighed  Humble  Petitions,  Ex- 
planations, Expostulations,  penned  with 
fervidest  eloquence,  with  craftiest  diplo- 
macy,—  all  delivered  by  our  tutelar  Coun- 
tess: in  vain!  —  O  Cardinal,  with  what  a 
huge  iron  mace,  like  Guy  of  Warwick's, 
thou  smitest  Phantasms  in  two,  which  close 
again,  take  shape  again ;  and  only  thrashest 
the  air  1 


^  133  ^ 

One  comfort,  however,  is  that  the  Queen's 
Majesty  has  committed  herself.  The  Rose 
of  Trianon,  and  what  may  pertain  thereto, 
lies  it  not  here?  That  ^^ Right  —  Marie- 
Antoinette  of  France,''  too  ;  and  the  30th 
of  July,  first-instalment-day,  coming?  She 
shall  be  brought  to  terms,  good  Eminence ! 
Order  horses  and  beef-eaters  for  Saverne; 
there,  ceasing  all  written  or  oral  communi- 
cations, starve  her  into  capitulating.  It 
is  the  bright  May  month:  his  Eminence 
again  somnambulates  the  Promenade  de  la 
Rose ;  but  now  with  grim  dry  eyes ;  and, 
from  time  to  time,  terrifically  stamping. 

But  who  is  this  that  I  see  mounted  on 
costliest  horse  and  horse-gear ;  betting  at 
Newmarket  Races ;  though  he  can  speak 
no  English  word,  and  only  some  Chevalier 
O'Niel,  some  Capuchin  Macdermot,  from 
Bar-sur-Aube,  interprets  his  French  into 
the  dialect  of  the  Sister  Island  ?  Few  days 
ago  I  observed  him  walking  in  Fleet-street, 
thoughtfully  through  Temple-Bar ;  —  in 


^  134  "^ 

deep  treaty  with  Jeweller  Jeffreys,  with 
Jeweller  Grey,  for  the  sale  of  Diamonds : 
such  a  lot  as  one  may  boast  of  A  tall 
handsome  man ;  with  ex-military  whiskers ; 
with  a  look  of  troubled  gayety,  and  rascal- 
ism  :  you  think  it  is  the  Sieur  self-styled 
Count  de  Lamotte ;  nay,  the  man  himself 
confesses  it !  The  Diamonds  were  a  present 
to  his  Countess,  —  from  the  still-bountiful 
Queen. 

Villette,  too,  has  he  completed  his  sales 
at  Amsterdam  ?  Him  I  shall  by-and-by 
behold;  not  betting  at  Newmarket,  but 
drinking  wine  and  ardent  spirits  in  the 
Taverns  of  Geneva.  Ill-gotten  wealth  en- 
dures not;  Rascaldom  has  no  strong-box. 
Countess  de  Lamotte,  for  what  a  set  of 
cormorant  scoundrels  hast  thou  laboured, 
art  thou  still  labouring ! 

Still  labouring,  we  may  say :  for  as  the 
fatal  30th  of  July  approaches,  what  is  to 
be  looked  for  but  universal  Earthquake ; 
Mud-explosion  that  will  blot-out  the  face 


^  135  ^ 
of  Nature?  Methinks,  stood  I  in  thy  pat- 
tens, Dame  de  Lamotte,  I  would  cut  and 
run.  —  "Run!"  exclaims  she,  with  a  toss 
of  indignant  astonishment :  "  Calumniated 
Innocence  run  ? "  For  it  is  singular  how  in 
some  minds,  which  are  mere  bottomless 
"chaotic  whirlpools  of  gilt  shreds,"  there 
is  no  deliberate  Lying  whatever;  and  no- 
thing is  either  believed  or  disbelieved,  but 
only  (with  some  transient  suitable  Histri- 
onic emotion)  spoken  and  heard. 

Had  Dame  de  Lamotte  a  certain  great- 
ness of  character,  then ;  at  least,  a  strength 
of  transcendent  audacity,  amounting  to  the 
bastard-heroic?  Great,  indubitably  great, 
is  her  Dramaturgic  and  Histrionic  talent ; 
but  as  for  the  rest,  one  must  answer,  with 
reluctance.  No.  Mrs.  Facing-both-ways  is 
a  "Spark  of  vehement  Life,"  but  the  far- 
thest in  the  world  from  a  brave  woman ;  she 
did  not,  in  any  case,  show  the  bravery  of  a 
woman ;  did,  in  many  cases,  show  the  mere 
screaming  trepidation  of  one.  Her  grand 


4^   136  ^ 

quality  is  rather  to  be  reckoned  negative; 
the  "  untamableness  "  as  of  a  fly ;  the  "  wax- 
cloth dress"  from  which  so  much  ran  down 
like  water.  Small  sparrows,  as  I  learn,  have 
been  trained  to  fire  cannon  ;  but  would 
make  poor  Artillery  Officers  in  a  Water- 
loo. Thou  dost  not  call  that  Cork  a  strong 
swimmer?  Which  nevertheless  shoots,with- 
out  hurt,  the  Falls  of  Niagara;  defies  the 
thunderbolt  itself  to  sink  it,  for  more  than 
a  moment.  Without  intellect,  imagination, 
power  of  attention,  or  any  spiritual  faculty, 
how  brave  were  one, — with  fit  motive  for 
it,  such  as  hunger  !  How  much  might  one 
dare,  by  the  simplest  of  methods,  by  not 
thinking  of  it,  not  knowing  it!  —  Besides, 
is  not  Cagliostro,  foolish  blustering  Quack, 
still  here  ?  No  scapegoat  had  ever  broader 
back.  The  Cardinal,  too,  has  he  not  money  ? 
Queen's  Majesty,  even  in  effigy,  shall  not 
be  insulted ;  the  Soubises,  De  Marsans,  and 
high  and  puissant  Cousins,  must  huddle 
the  matter  up :  Calumniated  Innocence,  in 


^   137  ^ 
the  most  universal  of  Earthquakes,  will 
find  some  crevice  to  whisk  through,  as  she 
has  so  often  done. 

But  all  this  while  how  fares  it  with  his 
Eminence,  left  somnambulating  the  Prome- 
nade de  la  Rose ;  and  at  times  truculently 
stamping?  Alas,  ill,  and  ever  worse.  The 
starving  method,  singular  as  it  may  seem, 
brings  no  capitulation ;  brings  only,  after 
a  month's  waiting,  our  tutelary  Countess, 
with  a  gilt  Autograph,  indeed,  and  "all 
wrapt  in  silk  threads,  sealed  where  they 
cross," — but  which  we  read  with  curses. 

We  must  back  again  to  Paris ;  there  pen 
new  Expostulations  ;  which  our  unwearied 
Countess  will  take  charge  of,  but,  alas,  can 
get  no  answer  to.  However,  is  not  the  30th 
of  July  coming? — Behold,  on  the  19th  of 
that  month,  the  shortest,  most  careless  of 
Autographs:  with  some  fifteen  hundred 
pounds  of  real  money  in  it,  to  pay  the  — 
interest  of  the  first  instalment;  the  princi- 
pal, of  some  thirty  thousand,  not  being  at 


^  138  *§► 

the  moment  perfectly  convenient!  Hungry 
Boehmer  makes  large  eyes  at  this  pro- 
posal; will  accept  the  money,  but  only  as 
part  of  payment ;  the  man  is  positive :  a 
Court  of  Justice,  if  no  other  means,  shall 
get  him  the  remainder.  What  now  is  to 
be  done  ? 

Farmer-general  Monsieur  Saint-James, 
Cagliostro's  disciple,  and  wet  with  Tokay, 
will  cheerfully  advance  the  sum  needed  — 
for  her  Majesty's  sake ;  thinks,  however 
(with  all  his  Tokay),  it  were  good  to 
speak  with  her  Majesty  first.  —  I  observe, 
meanwhile,  the  distracted  hungry  Boehmer 
driven  hither  and  thither,  not  by  his  fixed- 
idea;  alas,  no,  but  by  the  far  more  fright- 
ful ghost  thereof,  —  since  no  payment  is 
forthcoming.  He  stands,  one  day,  speaking 
with  a  Queen's  waiting-woman  (Madame 
Campan  herself),  in  "a  thunder-shower, 
which  neither  of  them  notice,"  —  so  thun- 
derstruck are  they.  What  weather-symp- 
toms for  his  Eminence  I 


^    139   ^ 

Thejothof  July  hascome,but  no  money; 
the  30th  is  gone,  but  no  money.  O  Emi- 
nence, what  a  grim  farewell  of  July  is  this 
of  1785  !  The  last  July  went  out  with  airs 
from  Heaven,  and  Trianon  Roses,  ^hese 
August  days,  are  they  not  worse  than  dog's 
days ;  worthy  to  be  blotted  out  from  all  Al- 
manacs ?  Boehmer  and  Bassange  thou  canst 
still  see ;  but  only  "  return  from  them  swear- 
ing." Nay,  what  new  misery  is  this?  Our 
tutelary  Histrionic  Countess  enters,  distrac- 
tion in  her  eyes ;  she  has  just  been  at  Ver- 
sailles ;  the  Queen's  Majesty,  with  a  levity 
of  caprice  which  we  dare  not  trust  ourselves 
to  characterise,  declares  plainly  that  she 
will  deny  ever  having  got  the  Necklace; 
ever  having  had,  with  his  Eminence,  any 
transaction  whatsoever!  —  Mud-explosion 
without  parallel  in  volcanic  annals.  —  The 
Palais  de  Strasbourg  appears  to  be  beset 
with  spies ;  the  Lamottes,  for  the  Count, 
too,  is  here,  are  packing-up  for  Bar-sur- 
Aube.    The  Sieur  Boehmer,  has  he  fallen 


4^    140  4^ 
insane  ?  Or  into  communication  with  Min- 
ister Breteuil  ?  — 

And  so,  distractedly  and  distractively,  to 
the  sound  of  all  Discords  in  Nature,  opens 
that  Fourth,  final  Scenic  Exhibition,  com- 
posed by  Destiny. 


CHAPTER   XV 

SCENE    FOURTH  :    BY    DESTINY 

T  T  is  Assumption-day,  the  fifteenth  of 
it  August.  Don  thy  pontificalia,  Grand- 
Almoner  ;  crush  down  these  hideous  tem- 
poralities out  of  sight.  In  any  case,  smooth 
thy  countenance  into  some  sort  of  lofty- 
dissolute  serene :  thou  hast  a  thing  they 
call  worshipping  God  to  enact,  thyself  the 
first  actor. 

The  Grand-Almoner  has  done  it.  He  is 
in  Versailles  CEil-de-Bceuf  Gallery ;  where 
male  and  female  Peerage,  and  all  Noble 
France  in  gala  various  and  glorious  as  the 
rainbow,  waits  only  the  signal  to  begin 
worshipping :  on  the  serene  of  his  lofty- 
dissolute  countenance  there  can  nothing 
be  read.  By  Heaven  !  he  is  sent  for  to  the 
Royal  Apartment ! 

He  returns  with  the  old  lofty-dissolute 


c 


^  142  «► 

look,  inscrutably  serene :  has  his  turn  for 
favour  actually  come,  then?  Those  fifteen 
long  years  of  souUs  travail  are  to  be  re- 
warded by  a  birth  ?  —  Monsieur  le  Baron  de 
Breteuil  issues;  great  in  his  pride  of  place, 
in  this  the  crowning  moment  of  his  life. 
With  one  radiant  glance,  Breteuil  summons 
the  Officer  on  Guard ;  with  another,  fixes 
Monseigneur :  ^^  De  park  Rot,  Monseigneur: 
you  are  arrested!  At  your  risk.  Officer!" 

—  Curtains  as  of  pitch-black  whirlwind 
envelop  Monseigneur;  whirl  off  with  him, 

—  to  outer  darkness.  Versailles  Gallery  ex- 
plodes aghast;  as  if  Guy  Fawkes's  Plot  had 
l>ursl  under  it.  "  The  Queen's  Majesty  was 
weeping,"  whisper  some.  There  will  be  no 
Assumption-service ;  or  such  a  one  as  was 
never  celebrated  since  Assumption  came  in 
fashion. 

Europe,  then,  shall  ring  with  it  from  side 
to  side !  —  But  why  rides  that  Heyduc  as  if 
all  the  Devils  drove  him  ?  It  is  Monsei- 


^  143  ^ 

gneur's  Heyduc :  Monseigneur  spoke  three 
words  in  German  to  him,  at  the  door  of  his 
Versailles  Hotel ;  even  handed  him  a  slip 
of  writing,  which,  with  borrowed  Pencil, 
"in  his  red  square  cap,"  he  had  managed 
to  prepare  on  the  way  thither.  To  Paris ! 
To  the  Palais-Cardinal !  The  horse  dies  on 
reaching  the  stable;  the  Heyduc  swoons  on 
reaching  the  cabinet :  but  his  slip  of  writing 
fell  from  his  hand ;  and  I  (says  the  Abbe 
Georgel)  was  there.  The  red  Portfolio,  con- 
taining all  the  gilt  Autographs,  is  burnt 
utterly,  with  much  else,  before  Breteuil  can 
arrive  for  apposition  of  the  seals !  —  Where- 
by Europe,  in  ringing  from  side  to  side, 
must  worry  itself  with  guessing :  and  at  this 
hour,  on  this  paper,  sees  the  matter  in  such 
an  interesting  clear-obscure. 

Soon  Count  Cagliostro  and  his  Seraphic 
Countess  go  to  join  Monseigneur,  in  State 
Prison.  In  few  days,  follows  Dame  de  La- 
motte,  from  Bar-sur-Aube ;  Demoiselle 
d'Oliva  by-and-by,  from  Brussels;  Villette- 


^  144  ^ 
de-Retaux,  from  his  Swiss  retirement, in  the 
taverns  of  Geneva.  The  Bastille  opens  its 
iron  bosom  to  them  all. 


CHAPTER  LAST 

MISSA  EST 

THUS,  then,  the  Diamond  Necklace 
having,  on  the  one  hand,  vanished 
through  the  Horn  Gate  of  Dreams,  and  so, 
under  the  pincers  of  Nisus  Lamotte  and 
Euryalus  Villette,  lost  its  sublunary  individ- 
uality and  being ;  and,  on  the  other  hand, 
all  that  trafficked  in  it,  sitting  now  safe  un- 
der lock  and  key,  that  justice  may  take  cog- 
nisance of  them, — our  engagement  in  regard 
to  the  matter  is  on  the  point  of  terminat- 
ing. That  extraordinary  ^^  Proces  du  Colliery 
Necklace  Trial,"  spinning  itself  through 
Nine  other  ever-memorable  Months,  to  the 
astonishment  of  the  hundred  and  eighty- 
seven  assembled  ParlementierSy  and  of 
all  Quidnuncs,  Journalists,  Anecdotists, 
Satirists,  in  both  Hemispheres,  is,  in  every 
sense,  a  "  Celebrated  Trial,"  and  belongs 


4f  146  ^ 
to  Publishers  of  such.  How,  by  innumer- 
able confrontations,  and  expiscatory  ques- 
tions, through  entanglements,  doublings 
and  windings  that  fatigue  eye  and  soul,  this 
most  involute  of  Lies  is  finally  winded  off 
to  the  scandalous-ridiculous  cinder-heart 
of  it,  let  others  relate. 

Meanwhile,  during  these  Nine  ever- 
memorable  Months,  till  they  terminate  late 
at  night  precisely  with  the  May  of  1786, 
how  many  fugitive  leaves,  quizzical,  imagi- 
native, or  at  least  mendacious,  were  flying 
about  in  Newspapers;  or  stitched  together 
as  Pamphlets ;  and  what  heaps  of  others 
were  left  creeping  in  Manuscript,  we  shall 
not  say ; — having,  indeed,  no  complete  Col- 
lection of  them,  and  what  is  more  to  the 
purpose,  little  to  do  with  such  Collection. 
Nevertheless,  searching  for  some  fit  Capital 
of  the  composite  order,  to  adorn  adequate- 
ly the  now  finished  singular  Pillar  of  our 
Narrative,  what  can  suit  us  better  than  the 
following,  so  far  as  we  know,  yet  unedited. 


4i^  147  ^ 
Occasional  Discourse,  by  Count  Alessandro 
Cagliostro,  I'haumaturgist,  Prophet  and 
Arcb-^ack;  delivered  in  the  Bastille: 
Year  of  Lucifer,  57^9  »*  of  the  Mahometan 
Hegira  from  Mecca,  1201  ;  of  the  Cagli- 
ostric  Hegira  from  Palermo,  24 ;  of  the 
Vulgar  Era,  1785. 

^^ Fellow  Scoundrels,  —  An  unspeakable 
Intrigue,  spun  from  the  soul  of  that  Circe- 
Megaera,  by  our  voluntary  or  involuntary 
help,  has  assembled  us  all,  if  not  under  one 
roof-tree,  yet  within  one  grim  iron-bound 
ring-wall.  For  an  appointed  number  of 
months,  in  the  ever-rolling  flow  of  Time, 
we,  being  gathered  from  the  four  winds, 
did  by  Destiny  work  together  in  body  cor- 
porate; and  joint  laborers  in  a  Transaction 
already  famed  over  the  Globe,  obtain  unity 
of  Name,  like  the  Argonauts  of  old,  as  Con- 
querors of  the  Diamond  Necklace,  Erelong  it 
is  done  (for  ring-walls  hold  not  captive  the 
free  Scoundrel  forever);  and  we  disperse 


4^  148  ^ 
again,  over  wide  terrestrial  Space;  some 
of  us,  it  may  be,  over  the  very  marches  of 
Space.  Our  Act  hangs  indissoluble  together; 
floats  wondrous  in  the  older  and  older 
memory  of  men:  while  we  the  little  band 
of  Scoundrels,  who  saw  each  other,  now 
hover  so  far  asunder,  to  see  each  other  no 
more,  if  not  once  more  only  on  the  uni- 
versal Doomsday,  the  Last  of  the  Days  ! 

"  In  such  interesting  moments,  while  we 
stand  within  the  verge  of  parting,  and  have 
not  yet  parted,  methinks  it  were  well  here, 
in  these  sequestered  Spaces,  to  institute  a 
few  general  reflections.  Me,  as  a  public 
speaker,  the  Spirit  of  Masonry,  of  Philo- 
sophy, and  Philanthropy,  and  even  of  pro- 
phecy, blowing  mysterious  from  the  Land 
of  Dreams,  impels  to  do  it.  Give  ear,  O  Fel- 
low Scoundrels,  to  what  the  Spirit  utters ; 
treasure  it  in  your  hearts,  practise  it  in  your 
lives. 

"  Sitting  here,  penned-up  in  this  which, 
with  a  slight  metaphor,  I  call  the  Central 


4t  149  ^ 
Cloaca  of  Nature,  where  a  tyrannical  De 
Launay  can  forbid  the  bodily  eye  free  vision, 
you  with  the  mental  eye  see  but  the  bet- 
ter. This  Central  Cloaca,  is  it  not  rather  a 
Heart, into  which,  from  all  regions,  mysteri- 
ous conduits  introduce  and  forcibly  inject 
whatsoever  is  choicest  in  the  scoundrelism 
of  the  Earth ;  there  to  be  absorbed,  or 
again  (by  the  other  auricle)  ejected  into 
new  circulation  ?  Let  the  eye  of  the  mind 
run  along  this  immeasurable  venous-arterial 
system ;  and  astound  itself  with  the  magni- 
ficent extent  of  Scoundreldom ;  the  deep, 
I  may  say,  unfathomable,  significance  of 
Scoundrelism. 

"Yes,  brethren,  wide  as  the  sun's  range  ^ 

is  our  Empire,  wider  than  old  Rome's  in 
its  palmiest  era.  I  have  in  my  time  been 
far;  in  frozen  Muscovy,  in  hot  Calabria, 
east,  west,  wheresoever  the  sky  overarches 
civilized  man :  and  never  hitherto  saw  I  my- 
self an  alien;  out  of  Scoundreldom  I  never 
was.  Is  it  not  even  said,  from  of  old,  by 


Ik' 


4*   ISO  ^ 

the  opposite  party:  'yf//  men  are  liars'? 
Do  they  not  (and  this  nowise  *  in  haste  *) 
whimperingly  talk  of 'one  just  person*  (as 
they  call  him),  and  of  the  remaining  thou- 
sand save  one  that  take  part  with  us?  So 
decided  is  our  majority/' —  (Applause.) 

"  Of  the  Scarlet  Woman, — yes,  Mon- 
seigneur,  without  offence,  —  of  the  Scarlet 
%  Woman  that  sits  on  Seven  Hills,  and  her 

Black  Jesuit  Militia,  out  foraging  from  Pole 
to  Pole,  I  speak  not;  for  the  story  is  too 
trite :  nay,  the  Militia  itself,  as  I  see,  begins 
to  be  disbanded,  and  invalided,  for  a  sec- 
ond treachery;  treachery  to  herself!  Nor 
yet  of  Governments ;  for  a  like  reason. 
Ambassadors,  said  an  English  punster,  He 
abroad  for  their  masters.  Their  masters,  we 
answer,  lie  at  home  for  themselves.  Not  of 
all  this,  nor  of  Courtship  with  its  Lovers'- 
vows,  nor  Courtiership,  nor  Attorneyism, 
nor  Public  Oratory,  and  Selling  by  Auction, 
do  I  speak :  I  simply  ask  the  gainsayer, 
Which  is  the  particular  trade,  profession, 


^  151  ^ 

mystery,  calling,  or  pursuit  of  the  Sons  of 
Adam  that  they  successfully  manage  in  the 
other  way?  He  cannot  answer!  —  No: 
Philosophy  itself,  both  practical  and  even 
speculative,  has  at  length,  after  shameful- 
lest  groping,  stumbled  on  the  plain  conclu- 
sion that  Sham  is  indispensable  to  Reality, 
as  Lying  to  Living;  that  without  Lying  the 
whole  business  of  the  world,  from  swaying 
of  senates  to  selling  of  tapes,  must  explode 
into  anarchic  discords,  and  so  a  speedy  con- 
clusion ensue. 

"  But  the  grand  problem,  Fellow  Scoun- 
drels, as  you  well  know,  is  the  marrying  of 
Truth  and  Sham  ;  so  that  they  become  one 
flesh,  man  and  wife,  and  generate  these 
three :  Profit,  Pudding,  and  Respectability 
that  always  keeps  her  Gig.  Wondrously,  in- 
deed, do  Truth  and  Delusion  play  into  one 
another;  Reality  rests  on  Dream.  Truth 
is  but  the  skin  of  the  bottomless  Untrue  : 
and  ever,  from  time  to  time,  the  Untrue 
sheds  it;  is  clear  again;  and  the  superan- 


m  ■ 


^    152    ^ 

nuated  True  itself  becomes  a  Fable.  Thus 
do  all  hostile  things  crumble  back  into 
our  Empire ;  and  of  its  increase  there  is 
no  end. 

"  O  brothers,  to  think  of  the  Speech  with- 
out meaning  (which  is  mostly  ours),  and 
of  the  Speech  with  contrary  meaning  (which 
is  wholly  ours),  manufactured  by  the  organs 
of  Mankind  in  one  solar  day !  Or  call  it 
a  day  of  Jubilee,  when  public  Dinners  are 
given,  and  Dinner-orations  are  delivered : 
or  say,  a  Neighbouring  Island  in  time  of 
General  Election!  O  ye  immortal  gods! 
The  mind  is  lost ;  can  only  admire  great 
Nature's  plenteousness  with  a  kind  of  sa- 
cred wonder. 

"  For  tell  me,  what  is  the  chief  end  of 
man  ?  'To glorify  God,'  said  the  old  Chris- 
tian Sect,  now  happily  extinct.  '  To  eat  and 
find  eatables  by  the  readiest  method,'  an- 
swers sound  Philosophy, discarding  whims. 
If  the  method  readier  th3.n  this  of  persua- 
sive-attraction is  yet  discovered, — point  it 


^  153  ^ 
out !  —  Brethren,  I  said  the  old  Christian 
Sectwas  happily  extinct:  as,indeed,inRome 
itself,  there  goes  the  wonderful  lest  tradi- 
tionary Prophecy,  of  that  Nazareth  Christ 
coming  back,  and  being  crucified  a  second 
time  there;  which  truly  I  see  not  in  the  least 
how  he  could  fail  to  be.  Nevertheless,  that 
old  Christian  whim,  of  an  actual  living  and 
ruling  God,  and  some  sacred  covenant  bind- 
ing all  men  in  Him,  with  much  other  mystic 
stuff,  does,  under  new  or  old  shape,  linger 
with  a  few.  From  these  few  keep  yourselves 
forever  far  I  They  must  even  be  left  to 
their  whim,  which  is  not  like  to  prove  in- 
fectious. 

"  But  neither  are  we,  my  Fellow  Scoun- 
drels, without  our  Religion,  our  Worship ; 
which,  like  the  oldest,  and  all  true  Wor- 
ships, is  one  of  Fear.  The  Christians  have 
their  Cross,  the  Moslem  their  Crescent :  but 
have  not  we  too  our  —  Gallows?  YtSy  infin- 
itely terrible  is  the  Gallows ;  it  bestrides  with 
its  patibulary  fork  the  Pit  of  bottomless 


^  154  ^ 

Terror.  No  Manicheans  are  we ;  our  God 
is  One.  Great,  exceeding  great,  I  say,  is 
the  Gallows;  of  old,  even  from  the  begin- 
ning, in  this  world;  knowing  neither  vari- 
ableness nor  decadence;  forever,  forever, 
over  the  wreck  of  ages,  and  all  civic  and 
ecclesiastic  convulsions,  meal-mobs,  revo- 
lutions, the  Gallows  with  front  serenely  ter- 
rible towers  aloft.  Fellow  Scoundrels,  fear 
the  Gallows  and  have  no  other  fear!  'This 
is  the  Law  and  the  Prophets.  Fear  every 
emanation  of  the  Gallows.  And  what  is 
every  buffet,  with  the  fist,  or  even  with  the 
tongue,  of  one  having  authority,  but  some 
such  emanation?  And  what  is  Force  of 
Public  Opinion  but  the  infinitude  of  such 
emanations,  —  rushing  combined  on  you, 
like  a  mighty  storm-wind?  Fear  the  Gal- 
lows, I  say !  O  when,  with  its  long  black 
arm,  //  has  clutched  a  man,  what  avail  him 
all  terrestrial  things  ?  These  pass  away,  with 
horrid  nameless  dinning  in  his  ears ;  and  the 
ill-starred  Scoundrel  pendulates  between 


^  155  ^ 

Heaven  and   Earth,  a  thing  rejected  of 
hlL*'  —  (Profound  sensation.) 

"Such,  so  wide  in  compass,  high,  gal- 
lows-high in  dignity,  is  the  Scoundrel  Em- 
pire; and  for  depth,  it  is  deeper  than  the 
Foundations  of  the  World.  For  what  was 
Creation  itself  wholly,  according  to  the 
best  Philosophers,  but  a  Divulsion  by  the 
Time-Spirit  (or  Devil  so  called);  a  forceful 
Interruption,  or  breaking  asunder,  of  the 
old  Quiescence  of  Eternity?  It  was  Lucifer 
that  fell,  and  made  this  lordly  World  arise. 
Deep?  It  is  bottomless-deep;  the  very 
Thought,  diving,  bobs  up  from  it  baffled. 
Is  not  this  that  they  call  Vice  of  Lying  the 
Adam-Kadmon^  or  primeval  Rude-Element, 
old  as  Chaos  mother's-womb  of  Death  and 
Hell;  whereon  their  thin  film  of  Virtue, 
Truth  and  the  like,  poorly  wavers — for  a 
day  ?  All  Virtue,  what  is  it,  even  by  their  own 
showing,  but  Vice  transformed, — that  is, 
manufactured,  rendered  artificial?  'Man's 
Vices  are  the  roots  from  which  his  Virtues 


4*   156  4" 

grow  out  and  see  the  light/  says  one: 
'Yes/  add  I,  *and  thanklessly  steal  their 
nourishment!*  Were  it  not  for  the  nine 
hundred  ninety  and  nine  unacknowledged, 
perhaps  martyred  and  calumniated  Scoun- 
drels, how  were  their  single  Just  Person 
(with  a  murrain  on  him!)  so  much  as  pos- 
sible?—  Oh,  it  is  high,  high:  these  things 
are  too  great  for  me;  Intellect,  Imagina- 
tion, flags  her  tired  wings;  the  soul  lost, 
baffled—" 

—  Here  Dame  de  Lamotte  tittered  audi- 
bly, and  muttered  Coq-d'Inde^  which,  being 
interpreted  into  the  Scottish  tongue,  signi- 
fies Bubbly-jock!  The  Arch-Quack,  whose 
eyes  were  turned  inwards  as  in  rapt  contem- 
plation, started  at  the  titter  and  mutter:  his 
eyes  flashed  outwards  with  dilated  pupil; 
his  nostrils  opened  wide;  his  very  hair 
seemed  to  stir  in  its  long  twisted  pigtails 
(his  fashion  of  curl);  and  as  Indignation 
is  said  to  make  Poetry,  it  here  made  Pro- 
phecy, or  what  sounded  as  such.  With  ter- 


4^  157  ^ 
rible,  working  features,  and  gesticulation 
not  recommended  in  any  Book  of  Ges- 
ture, the  Arch-Quack,  in  voice  supernally 
discordant,  like  Lions  worrying  Bulls  of 
Bashan,  began:  — 

^'  Sniff  not.  Dame  de  Lamotte ;  tremble, 
thou  foul  Circe- Megaera;  thy  day  of  deso- 
lation is  at  hand !  Behold  ye  the  Sanhedrim 
of  Judges,  with  their  fanners  of  written 
Parchment,  loud-rustling,  as  they  winnow 
all  her  chaff  and  down-plumage,  and  she 
stands  there  naked  and  mean? — Villette, 
Oliva,  do  ye  blab  secrets  ?  Ye  have  no  pity 
of  her  extreme  need ;  she  none  of  yours. 
Is  thy  light-giggling,  untamable  heart  at 
last  heavy  ?  Hark  ye  !  Shrieks  of  one  cast 
out;  whom  they  brand  on  both  shoulders 
with  iron  stamp;  the  red-hot  *  V,*  thou  Fo^ 
kuse,  hath  it  entered  thy  soul?  Weep,  Circe 
de  Lamotte;  wail  there  in  truckle-bed, 
and  hysterically  gnash  thy  teeth:  nay,  do, 
smother  thyself  in  thy  door-mat  coverlid; 
thou  hast  found  thy  mates ;  thou  art  in  the 


4*  158  ^ 
Salpetriere! — Weep,  daughter  of  the  high 
and  puissant  Sans-inexpressibles !  Buzz  of 
Parisian  Gossipry  is  about  thee ;  but  not  to 
help  thee :  no,  to  eat  before  thy  time.  What 
shall  a  King's  Court  do  with  thee,  thou  un- 
clean thing,  while  thou  yet  livest?  Escape! 
Flee  to  utmost  countries,  hide  there,  if  thou 
canst,  thy  mark  of  Cain  !  —  In  the  Babylon 
of  Fogland!  Ha!  is  that  my  London?  See 
I  Judas  Iscariot  Egalite?  Print,  yea,  print 
abundantly  the  abominations  of  your  two 
hearts :  breath  of  rattlesnakes  can  bedim  the 
steel  mirror,  but  only  for  a  time. — And 
there!  Aye,  there  at  last!  Tumblest  thou 
from  the  lofty  leads,  poverty-stricken,  O 
thriftless  daughter  of  the  high  and  puissant, 
escaping  bailiffs  ?  Descendest  thou  precipi- 
tate, in  dead  night,  from  window  in  the 
third  story ;  hurled  forth  by  Bacchanals,  to 
whom  thy  shrill  tongue  had  grown  unbear- 
able ?  Yea,  through  the  smoke  of  that  new 
Babylon  thou  fallest  headlong;  one  long 
scream  of  screams  makes  night  hideous; 


^  159  ^ 

thou  liest  there,  shattered  like  addle  egg, 
'  nigh  to  the  Temple  of  Flora !  *  O  Lamotte, 
has  thy  Hypocrisia  ended,  then  ?  Thy  many 
characters  were  all  acted.  Here  at  last  thou 
actest  not,  but  art  what  thou  seemest:  a 
mangled  squelch  of  gore,  confusion,  and 
abomination;  which  men  huddle  under- 
ground, with  no  burial-stone.  Thou  gal- 
lows-carrion! —  " 

—  Here  the  prophet  turned  up  his  nose 
(the  broadest  of  the  eighteenth  century), 
and  opened  wide  his  nostrils  with  such  a 
greatness  of  disgust,  that  all  the  audience, 
even  Lamotte  herself,  sympathetically  imi- 
tated him. — "O Dame de Lamotte!  Dame 
de  Lamotte!  Now,  when  the  circle  of  thy 
existence  lies  complete;  and  my  eye  glances 
over  these  twoscore  and  three  years  that 
were  lent  thee,  to  do  evil  as  thou  couldst; 
and  I  behold  thee  a  bright-eyed  little  Tat- 
terdemalion, begging  and  gathering  sticks 
in  the  Bois  de  Boulogne ;  and  also  at  length 
a  squelched  Putrefaction,  here  on  London 


4«^    i6o  ^ 

pavements;  with  the  head-dressings  and 
hungerings,  the  gaddings  and  hysterical 
gigglings  that  came  between,  —  what  shall 
I  say  was  the  meaning  of  thee  at  all? — 

"Villette-de-Retaux!  Have  the  catch- 
poles  trepanned  thee,  by  sham  of  battle,  in 
thy  Tavern,  from  the  sacred  Republican 
soil?  It  is  thou  that  wert  the  hired  Forger 
of  Handwritings?  Thou  wilt  confess  it? 
Depart,  unwhipt  yet  accursed.  —  Ha  1  The 
dread  Symbol  of  our  Faith  ?  Swings  aloft, 
on  the  Castle  of  Saint  Angelo,  a  Pendulous 
Mass,  which  I  think  I  discern  to  be  the 
body  of  Villette!  There  let  him  end;  the 
sweet  morsel  of  our  Juggernaut. 

"  Nay,  weep  not  thou,  disconsolate  Oliva; 
blear  not  thy  bright  blue  eyes,  daughter  of 
the  shady  Garden!  Thee  shall  the  Sanhe- 
drim not  harm :  this  Cloaca  of  Nature  emits 
thee;  as  notablest  of  unfortunate-females, 
thou  shalt  have  choice  of  husbands  not 
without  capital;  and  accept  one.  Know  this; 
for  the  vision  of  it  is  true. 


^   i6i    ^ 

"  But  the  Anointed  Majesty  whom  ye 
profaned  ?  Blow,  spirit  of  Egyptian  Ma- 
sonry, blow  aside  the  thick  curtains  of 
Space !  Lo  you,  her  eyes  are  red  with  their 
first  tears  of  pure  bitterness;  not  with  their 
last.  Tire-woman  Campan  is  choosing,  from 
the  Print-shops  of  the  Quais,  the  reputed- 
best  among  the  hundred  likenesses  of  Circe 
de  Lamotte:  a  Queen  shall  consider  if  the 
basest  of  women  ever,  by  any  accident,  dark- 
ened daylight  or  candlelight  for  the  highest. 
The  Portrait  answers :  Never!"  —  (Sensa- 
tion in  the  audience.) 

"  —  Ha!  What  is //^/ J.?  Angels,  Uriel, 
Anachiel,  and  ye  other  five;  Pentagon  of 
Rejuvenescence;  Power  that  destroyedst 
Original  Sin;  Earth,  Heaven,  and  thou 
Outer  Limbo  which  men  name  Hell !  Does 
the  Empire  of  Imposture  waver?  Burst 
there,  in  starry  sheen,  updarting,  Light-rays 
from  out  its  dark  foundations ;  as  it  rocks 
and  heaves,  not  in  travail-throes,  but  in 
death-throes  ?   Yea,  Light-rays,  piercing. 


4^   i62  ^ 

clear,  that  salute  the  Heavens,  —  lo,  they 
kM/e  it;  their  starry  clearness  becomes  as 
red  Hell-fire!  Imposture  is  in  flames.  Im- 
posture is  burnt  up:  one  Red-Sea  of  Fire, 
wild-billowing  enwraps  the  World ;  with  its 
fire-tongue  licks  at  the  very  stars.  Thrones 
are  hurled  into  it,  and  Dubois  Mitres,  and 
Prebendal  Stalls  that  drop  fatness,  and  — 
ha!  what  see  I? — all  the  Gigs  of  Creation: 
all,  all!  Woe  is  me!  Never  since  Pharaoh's 
Chariots,  in  the  Red-Sea  of  water,  was  there 
wreck  of  Wheel-vehicles  like  this  in  the  sea 
of  Fire.  Desolate,  as  ashes,  as  gases,  shall 
they  wander  in  the  wind. 

"  Higher,  higher  yet  flames  the  Fire-Sea ; 
crackling  with  new  dislocated  timber;  hiss- 
ing with  leather  and  prunella.  The  metal 
Images  are  molten;  the  marble  Images  be- 
come mortar-lime;  the  stone  Mountains 
sulkily  explode.  Respectability,  with  all 
her  collected  Gigs  inflamed  for  funeral  pyre, 
wailing,  leaves  the  Earth :  not  to  return  save 
under  new  Avatar.  Imposture,  how  it  burns, 


4^  163  4^ 
through  generations:  how  it  is  burnt  up — 
for  a  time.  The  World  is  black  ashes  ;  which, 
ah,  when  will  they  grow  green  ?  The  I  mages 
all  run  into  amorphous  Corinthian  brass ; 
all  Dwellings  of  men  destroyed;  the  very 
mountains  peeled  and  riven,  the  valleys 
black  and  dead :  it  is  an  empty  World !  Woe 

to  them  that  shall  be  born  then! A 

King,  a  Queen  (ah  me!)  were  hurled  in; 
did  rustle  once;  flew  aloft,  crackling,  like 
paper-scroll.  Oliva's  Husband  was  hurled 
in ;  Iscariot  Egalite;  thou  grim  De  Launay, 
with  thy  grim  Bastille;  whole  kindreds  and 
peoples;  five  millions  of  mutually  destroy- 
ing Men.  For  it  is  the  End  of  the  Domin- 
ion of  Imposture  (which  is  Darkness  and 
opaqueFiredamp);  and  the  burning-up,  with 
unquenchable  fire,  of  all  the  Gigs  that  are 
in  the  Earth ! "  —  Here  the  Prophet  paused, 
fetching  a  deep  sigh;  and  the  Cardinal 
uttered  a  kind  of  faint,  tremulous  Hem ! 

"  Mourn  not,  O  Monseigneur,  spite  of 
thy  nephritic  colic  and   many  infirmities. 


^  164  ^ 

For  thee  mercifully  it  was  not  unto  death. 
O  Monseigneur  (for  thou  hadst  a  touch 
of  goodness),  who  would  not  weep  over 
thee,  if  he  also  laughed  ?  Behold !  The  not 
too  judicious  Historian,  that  long  years 
hence,  amid  remotest  wildernesses,  writes 
thy  life,  and  names  thee  Mud-volcano; 
even  he  shall  reflect  that  it  was  thy  Life, 
this  same;  thy  only  chance  through  whole 
Eternity;  which  thou  (poor  gambler)  hast 
expended  so :  and,  even  over  his  hard  heart, 
a  breath  of  dewy  pity  for  thee,  shall  blow. 
—  O  Monseigneur,  thou  wert  not  all  ig- 
noble: thy  Mud-volcano  was  but  strength 
dislocated,  fire  misapplied.  Thou  wentest 
ravening  through  the  world;  no  Life-elixir 
or  Stone  of  the  Wise  could  we  two  (for 
want  of  funds)  discover:  a  foulest  Circe 
undertook  to  fatten  thee;  and  thou  hadst 
to  fill  thy  belly  with  the  east  wind.  And 
burst?  Bythe  Masonry  of  Enoch,  No  I  Be- 
hold, has  not  thy  Jesuit  Familiar  his  Scouts 
dim-flying  over  the  deep  of  human  things? 


^  165  ^ 

Cleared  art  thou  of  crimejSave  that  of  fixed- 
idea;-  weepest,  a  repentant  exile,  in  the 
Mountains  of  Auvergne.  Neither  shall  the 
Red  Fire-Sea  itself  consume  thee;  only 
consume  thy  Gig,  and,  instead  of  Gig  (O 
rich  exchange !),  restore  thy  Self.  Safe  be- 
yond theRhine-stream,  thou  livest  peaceful 
days ;  savest  many  from  the  fire,  and  anoint- 
est  their  smarting  burns.  Sleep  finally,  in 
thy  mother's  bosom,  in  a  good  old  age!" 
—  The  Cardinal  gave  a  sort  of  guttural 
murmur,  or  gurgle,  which  ended  in  a  long 
sigh. 

"  O  Horrors,  as  ye  shall  be  called,"  again 
burst  forth  the  Quack, "  why  have  ye  missed 
the  Sieur  de  Lamotte ;  why  not  of  him,  too, 
made  gallows-carrion  ?  Will  spear,  or  sword- 
stick,  thrust  at  him  (or  supposed  to  be 
thrust),  through  window  of  hackney-coach, 
in  Piccadilly  of  the  Babylon  of  Fog,  where 
he  jolts  disconsolate,  not  let  out  the  im- 
prisoned animal  existence?  Is  he  poisoned, 
too  ?  Poison  will  not  kill  the  Sieur  Lamotte ; 


^   166  ^ 

nor  steel,  nor  massacres.  Let  him  drag  his 
utterly  superfluous  life  to  a  second  and  a 
third  generation ;  and  even  admit  the  not  too 
judicious  Historian  to  see  his  face  before  he 
die. 

"But,  ha!"  cried  he,  and  stood  wide- 
staring,  horror-struck,  as  if  some  Cribb's  fist 
had  knocked  the  wind  out  of  him :  "  O  hor- 
ror of  horrors !  IsitnotMyselflsee?  Roman 
Inquisition !  Long  months  of  cruel  baiting! 
Life  of  Giuseppe  Bah  am  0  !  Cagliostro's  Body 
still  lying  in  St.  Leo  Castle,  his  Self^td — 
whither?  Bystanders  wag  their  heads,  and 
say : '  The  Brow  of  Brass,  behold  how  it  has 
got  all  unlacquered;  these  Pinchbeck  lips 
can  lie  no  morei'Eheu!  Ohoo!" — And  he 
burst  into  unstanchable  blubbering  of  tears ; 
and  sobbing  out  the  moanfullest  broken 
howl,  sank  down  in  swoon ;  to  be  put  to  bed 
by  De  Launay  and  others. 

Thus  spoke  (or  thus  might  have  spoken), 
and  prophesied,  the  Arch-Quack  Caglios- 
tro :  and  truly  much  better  than  he  ever  else 


^  167  ^ 

did :  for  not  a  jot  or  tittle  of  it  (save  only  that 
of  our  promised  Interview  with  Nestor  de 
Lamotte,  which  looks  unlikelier  than  ever, 
for  we  have  not  heard  of  him,  dead  or  living, 
since  1826) — but  has  turned  out  to  be  lit- 
erally Irue,  As,  indeed,  in  all  this  History, 
one  jot  or  tittle  of  untruth,  that  we  could 
render  true,  is  perhaps  not  discoverable; 
much  as  the  distrustful  reader  may  have 
disbelieved. 

Here,  then,  our  little  labour  ends.  The 
Necklace  was,  and  is  no  more:  the  stones 
of  it  again  "  circulate  in  commerce,**  some  of 
them  perhaps  in  Rundle's  at  this  hour;  and 
may  give  rise  to  what  other  Histories  we 
know  not.  The  Conquerors  of  it,  every  one 
that  trafficked  in  it,  have  they  not  all  had 
their  due, which  was  Death? 

This  little  Business,  like  a  little  cloud, 
bodied  itself  forth  in  skies  clear  to  the  un- 
observant: but  with  such  hues  of  deep- 
tinted  villainy,  dissoluteness  and  general 


^   i68   ^ 

delirium  as,  to  the  observant,  betokened 
it  electric;  and  wise  men,  a  Goethe,  for  ex- 
ample, boded  Earthquakes.  Has  not  the 
Earthquake  come? 


THE    END 


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